What is this thing called morning?
It seems to have escaped you completely
though nauseous flashes
and a pulsing eyelid
are all recent memories.
You mutter yourself awake today
The scrawled notes on last night’s napkin tatters
would make sense
if you could remember more
of an earlier twelve hours
but the words on the pages,
almost in your handwriting,
are from no language you recognize,
certainly none that your strobelight skull
seems capable of translating
this early aching afternoon.
Who can remember the crimes of Tuesday?
And what would be the point
of those faraway recollections
Better just to struggle through the day
trying to make sense of what’s left
of the hours until you can attempt sleep again
if your intestines ever let you.