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
—again.
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?
Across Beyond 