Morning is a bruise,
a part of the day before defenses are awake
and colors seep in the cracks
bleeding red, blazing orange,
chasing grey back down the throat.
January is bending over
waiting to be given punishment
for living, a tingling ball of flesh
hurt and only wanting more
despite recent goodwill.
Winter mornings are pure cleansing fire
through nose into mouth to lungs
on a freezing doorstep,
clenching and slowly letting open
to a new day, a new chance to be burned.