the day yawns
and swallows black oily night.
the sun sticks
his hot finger in my eye.
at noon o’clock my nightmare
just begins.
unfolding myself out of bed
a thick soft sack of pudding
dusted with unruly short black wires.
a bone sticks out from
me at right angles.
annoying.
i am too old for these games.
my skeleton
vertical clapboards creeking
winding down the stairs.
rubbing sandman from my eyes
a tear worms down the dry bed creek
of long forgotten smiles.
day has tossed himself at the
horizon.
a mess of bloody spilled yolk.
my heart sighs from a corner
of an empty cell.
this is why the caged bird
does not sing.