Year of writing 271. morning.

9/25/12


The light stung sharp;
pointed like tongues
and tines, it angled steep
from the window.

He wasn't awake,
in any cognitive sense
of the word, his left eye
still buried in the pillow

his right open just enough
to catch this lone ray,
this painful beginning.
He let it hurt for a while,

tattooing its brightness
against his retina. He coughed
then, once, and reached a
slow hand to the blinds.