To wake,
when the only light is a greasy yellow morning
oiling itself up against the window.
When the door stands,
around the corner and out of sight,
open to the humid comfort of rain today.
To wake.
To see how far I haven't come,
though I do want my life,
and all its stagnant petals,
for the sake of truly ardent ties to the people there.
To wake,
and want death as well.
No more prostrate thinking,
dwelling on the fragrances of lost Edens,
and other things I cannot have.
To wake,
and discover a season
so rid of constants that there are no ports in this storm,
nor lands to call home,
nor even shoals to sink to
in tears.