i skitter
halfway between
waking and dead
the lingering
fog hangs cloying
in a sublimation
where need roils
to coat my vision
with the spectres
long buried in
bitterness awoken
by roasted beans
to saturate every
muted hue of a
new morning
indistinguishable
from the last
percolating in
anxieties and need

i spoke at length
to the ceiling
waiting for the
sparrows to sing
of a new day ripe
with frantic notes
of early devotion
stumbling out into
the nascent agony
as the lazy sun rises