The crash of breaking glass brings wakefulness,
shuttered eyes cracking open, indecently red,
contemptuous of the need for night vision.
Muscles snap in protest, vertigo sailing down that
gymnast's body; tough yet voluptuous.
Perspiration beading like midnight dew,
conforming to mornings only in past tense,
where one harkens to birdsong at dawn and thinks:


The whisper of feet and hissing lungs drags
the intrusive clattering closer with each breath,
offensive for so calm an evening.
Tiny holes speckling a sky divested of cloud,
brightness intruding yet muted on the irises.
Light and moisture re-making the ruined pane
into frosted icicles, exquisitely cold only where
the sanguine liquid does not steam.
Adrenaline hits as a bolt of lightning strikes a tree,
primitive bundles of nerves blazing like purgatory,
blood howling down twisting rivers of veins:


The heart thunders and red-dotted toes spring
to the brain's dire command - the body leaps

soaring into the night, limbs curled foetally,
eyes un-shuttered, perspiration like dew.
The crash of breaking glass brings wakefulness.