Sleep is tugging at the place where my hand should

be working. The pull and push of sleep time.

Thick breakfast air and thin breakfast light

take turns in my senses. I am

the late bus from table to

chair, head nodding to the

cold sound of waking

slowly.

I am

out in

loud, sun steps,

dropping sleep sleeves,

and picking up clock

time. Standing and stretching

into midday trees. Racing

concrete to sidewalk and not quite

caring. Morning sprawls out through the day,

making me crawl back into bed before evening even arrives.