Untitled Morning

I awake from sensitive sleep. I’m out of tune to the bed-sheet; like magnet

against a magnet, not yet fully formed to be part of this new day.

My right hand is a cutout, a hole; in shape of a hand on the edge of

substance.

I attempt to grab for my duvet, but my hand sinks through it; as if softer.

Then, like warm sands engulfing cold, ancestral rock, my hand slowly returns to

me, as I watch it closely re-generate; appreciation of owner-ship is fulfilled,

and it proceeds to move by my own accord; to turn off the irritating alarm!

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