I AM FULL OF ARROWS

Demons, scores of hissing serpents,

every dawn-their proud vessel.

 

The morning is a dreadful thing;

wrenched from the womb or warm bed.

 

Perhaps youth should attack the day,

as old spent forces retreat, repair.

 

Day-it’s leg raised as rays are let loose.

Clocking in, I am full of arrows.

 

This one-undeserving of glory.

Squinting at gold of the mundane.

 

Inscribe, write it all down for me.

I’d rather be told what happened.

 

This coward-unhorsed daily,

limping across the finish line.

 

Beginnings are bleeding events;

our rivers are slow to run dry.

 

I’ve always awakened cursing

the prying light behind the curtain.

 

Every night deepening, sinking,

as we dream of aborted Suns.

 

Wakefulness-surely a miracle

that our slumber seeks to heal.