This morning was grey before everything dried,
from the rain last night,
and I am still restless,
unsatisfied.

The wasp trapped in my window whines
at the sunny outside
behind that old glass,
the tight screen lines

and I would get out of this bed
but my body echoes, so vacant
that I can't reach the hunger
way down, down.

If I took this disheveled head
and drilled in two small holes
would all of me trickle out,
way down, down
into a puddle around my feet, reflecting...

This morning was simple before I woke
in an empty house broke:
consciousness curled on an old mattress
slowly chokes.