Awake before wanting to be awake, noticing the untenable. Eyes dry, in the dark, fingers sore from a bite. Blankets and sheets that don’t fit, at all. Chill in the bones, heat at skin surface. The groan of vehicles, unceasing respiration of machines, and somewhere, the unaddressable discomfort of a womb. Everything dragging a heavy weight. (Growing deficit of fuel.) History, its epicycles, (each one a genocide), and words, from which I ask too much. Even body cannot do that, says Luna, inverting. Shifting between, the falling apart, the holding together, or the manic inference that there ever could have been a beginning. One would first have to have died, says the cock, crowing. (Or at the very least, fallen asleep.)
