aubade

[napowrimo2015 day 6]

the morning moves too fast for poets

who wake warily, naked of words

the mis-arranged letters of dreams

sprinkle from the ceiling, like a giant

just shook you up

the morning moves too fast for you

who likes to sit infinitely, the steam

engine of brutal beginnings whirling

above my coffee cup

the morning moves too fast for me

who tumbles dry out of sleep

before light; get up, get up.