The voices rose aloft – choral
song a matin more apt than winged
chirping and spiral ascension of notes
natural, yes, though lacking
in human sentiment.
Heavy, the remnant somnolent veil
this morning; limbs disinclined to lift
from sheets yet warm with sleep – the deep
and the actively dreaming. Creases
scars of memory no skin
should keep. White noise
crackles, dissipates such thoughts, sounds,
and – struggling – she places soles
of feet to floor, so cold. Toe to heel;
heel to toe: kitchen-bound march
a forced rhythm to wake
to semblance of survival.
Red-painted smile, symbolic
mask, of later arrival would come.
She raises a hand to half-closed eyes:
What light, but
what purpose the sun?