Circadian

​

Every dawn the sun

repeats the work of creation,

lets you enjoy the forms you make out

in pink light, smell

the sidewalk drying off,

feel the air stirring, blue to bear

hawks and vultures aloft,

gray for commerce of juncoes.

I am not you.

I prefer to suffer my slow rebirth,

stare at curtains dark on this side and decisions.

Later, when streets are relegated

to drunks, halls to unseen floor sweepers,

I'll save the shapes of mattress, body, tired thought,

in themselves a world,

from the addictive nightly death.