Wrinkl I

And sometimes I wake still painfully unaware of why I have.

And then

coldly

or why I do.

It is mornings dark and strange as the night that birth’d them

and sodden pillows

and ticking clocks

and floor’d sheets little hard evidence of the stall’d guerilla attack.

It is memories of a place I have not been

but a place I cannot wipe away with so much sweat or tears were every inch of me crying like a child lost

a ghost weeping  in a market crowded with bodies

but only bodies

faceless, headless ambling with so little a purpose as my isolation cum orphan.

I stir often with regret.

With all of the quiet practiced precision of a warfield coroner.

With all of the diluted ignorance of an uncupp’d moth.

It is genuinely here that I sleep

Shuffling languidly in sunlight and utterly wrested.