there is only time to work, there is only fake daylight, there is only work, there is only daylight, work, light, good morning
the morning always comes, clinging, your insides huddle together and small heart and elephant head and hammers and nails, not twine. every night built by force and fear.
Holy hell all hers, this is not the elegance that dies in a fire. Sometimes, twelve hours go untouched, and receipts remain collected in a doomsday cabinet. Sometimes, confusion amasses in the air conditioner, heating up on hot days. Spit seeps through a napkin, a cough escapes its echo. Plants expand, despite little encouragement. Here morning and night are just a dot on the clock.
A single digit quiet only creaks away as mother opens, closes, then opens the screen door. Such trouble, whether or not the sun has risen. Tiny strikes in the sky, minor conduction through a filament. The electric tastes what blown glass holds— or light fades in the refrigerator. An aging alkaline glow leaves the porch less yellow, as if growth is the opposite of decay.
Before she is awake, wind fills the hinges, and daylight fits a keyhole. A standard corner opens small and bare, close to brightness. Every syllable wants breath, and each branch air. This lone place she appeals. Construction, as an action is permanent but otherwise ephemeral. This is not the tree that bears fruit forever. Let us consider all our inner rings. Our well nourished limbs weigh down, and try not to tear the roots they reach for.
