Lumens ortus

The light is hard,

these days in crippled form

waning I lose my touch

and crumble

under pain that floats, indifferent to pills.



I dream of a wing and breathlessly

wake and climb mountains of grimaces

just to see the birds.

I can nail my coffee down here and

throw my brain in a bag:



Then I might be able to write about

this little birth,

this birth of light on the day

and in me.