As always, I wake tying a rope, blood red, to the morning post. And as I walk, neck clutched in the day’s crawl, my shadow sprints ahead and secures the rope, red, to my bedpost, sturdy in root as Mesopotamian pillars. And, as with months, and years, tomorrow seems already to have tautened the rope, bled, between days and sealed my bygones into neat leather pouches (the moon and sun inching ever closer together) - my cellar stitched in conveyor hanger rows - making sure to beat off the excess as she sees fit; my eyes, hands, lost, blind, scattered on the floor for lost scraps of molten hourglass pressed out of my lungs’ crib by the crush of clamps and tautened rope, bloody bloody deepened red. The red I am hurled and beaten against.
Just as I wake, the shallow plash of receding sleep in my hair, I sorely retire, veins spent, still shaking half-budded reveries out of my ears.
