sleeping lines

sleeping lines

the track lines
of recent dreaming,
are etched into your skin
like yesterday’s fossils.

speaking silent
of the inconvenience
of mornings,

plucked
from our own,
warm little rooms,
like clams,

each of us pitched into the morning,
alone.
the dryness of sleep
curdling our mouths.

we try smiles,
but they are raw
and unripe.

the painted vulnerability
of our private night,
a devil on our shoulder.

if this is how each day begins,

how can we, be
expected,
to cope
with the rest of it.