By the time it falls dark,

I fold inwards and declare

to the moon, “I am done.”

But morning comes… again

and again, a relentless trade

of breath for thought,

of will versus instinct.

I am fed each day though

sometimes it is make-believe.

It is hard to meet the sun

halfway, though I carry light

within and through the ages.

Was the end supposed to be

a pantsless, snack-heavy groaning board

full of clear skies?

Because I’m standing at my window,

singing a sorrowful song to the rising moon

and yet I feel relieved.

There’s not much to be afraid of

when you see the sun’s dust,

the night’s stars,

and your own hands

for what they are: empty.

this rut is new-ish

with twinkly lights in the corner

and warm socks tossed on the floor

I want a bowl of cereal

but count the hours before

I have to have another one…

like breakfast is mandatory

in the midst of the other 18 hours,

no matter the order or

how they’re spread haphazardly over days

6am comes too soon

so I languish and rub my legs together

while morning (mourning?) doves coo

just outside the window

when asked how things are going,

I say “ok” and leave out the recent

reintroduction of dill, reaffirmation of pesto,

and repulsion of coconut –

I don’t judge other kinks

when my own fit between 2-5am

In my dream, Bing Crosby

asked if I’d rather be a fish

(the birds were crying “No!”)

and we sort of tap danced

over a plywood hillock

while a paper moon swung

dangerously low.

I felt warm and excited

at the prospect of being part

of a musical number

with the man with the pipe.

He beat me, of course,

and I awoke sweating and snapping

my fingers, wishing for a smoke.

a small death

led to a month of plastics

before the wind took over

and called the rain

to herald the most lovely month

(I couldn’t bear it)

the sun bled a little

before sparks made night

as thrilling as the fishing hole

held away the next day

a chill made the trees dreamy

as death grew close again

but we celebrated just the same