Waking up, falling down

In
the tin-can morning
jagged-sunned
safe, but for a raw edge
behind the death-knell curtains
I put on my floor trousers
laying like a dog
dust the colour of the moon 
sieves down
I step raggedly through
motes follow, worshipping 


There’s a myth 
that strength and vulnerability 
aren’t mutually exclusive 


From here you can almost see
the willow by the bridge


But (too bright) today
I will just hallow the memory


The shadow of the bed’s
barred iron brow
stretches narrowly and wide 
to keep me


As if such creatures had enclosing wings


Crumpling by the escarpment
to the floor
I do not dispute

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