Not Again

Wind beating the bejesus
out of the day again
is what I hear when I drag
out of bed.

A slap upside the head,
then another, and again
the old world takes it
with nothing but a skittering

of plastic, and a carpet of beeps
the alarm clock spits out at me—
again. Time once more to rise,
beaten down in the act

and to rustle like a wrapper,
for reasons thin as air,
through it all

The sad wheel
of that word, again, its weight,
how it can only ever fall
on itself…

Sometimes I wish
it would roll right past me
to wherever it’s always
storming, to some point

notched forward day
after day, or that it would
finally get there, maybe
teeter a little bit, then fall flat.

Would we at last be free to roam one
continuous cloud of dust—clockless,
windless, notchless—the unheard-of
reaching out in every direction?