this morning, the light meets the earth with a queue,
in which splintering fury rose; the horizon starts throwing a fit,
his legs a handful too much to crawl
beneath the unfaithful dawn.

one realises                                                                   one only has to
too quickly                                   stand where
she is not built for queues

cymbals ricochet dissonance among passengers
trying not to notice movement between one world and another
every little digital screen helps
it is soliciting solitude that matters to the morning, the moving.

you can be in this space and not live within its shackles,
not run its blood, not inhabit its host.
have you heard
time wants its mortgage back;
migrate from this tightening hole.

are you going
going to be gone
gone to the words
words you have borne

a vertebrae a lone
line of littered sober sins
the cracking sun-bone
blinding every of its kin.