I practice a form of time travel called insomnia
or maybe it practices me
a liminal state
awake but wrongly
the morning uninevitable
though it is always morning somewhere
what is a morning but the night’s fist unclenching
present always but not noticed until it strikes
rattling your old bones
the earth dragged onward
spiraling through all that night
that fist
opening again and again
and closing
and us
raked by cosmic winds
barely clinging
all our ambitions a smear on glass
a concrescence of matter
a chance
I practice a form of time travel called insomnia
or maybe it practices me
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