It can be difficult to wake. Dreams are heavy like ten thousand words, typeset into body.
When there is another beside you, it can be easy to remain in bed. They hold you as though your organs will flail if they let go. Their smell is so familiar but when the sun lets loose in the sky, you must unfold and drift up.
Mornings can be a reminder of the day before or several years earlier when you had a porch and pup. Or when you floated boxed-wine in icy lake in the woods when camp-out lasted several days and home was referred to as: beyond the highest trees and past the boulders and before the mountain.
The bowl of fruit in the sky is ripening. There are kiwi and mandarin oranges and bananas and pomegranates and a few mangoes. We can call that other one tropical or traveled. There is so much to be eaten: humans & harvests & even the histories we collect.
It may be difficult to go on sometimes. What I mean is, sometimes death feels erotic and loving. How to tumble away from that ledge because here in the city, fire escapes are collapsing. Sometimes the sky sends out smoke signals to warn of this collapse; sometimes the sky forgets to notice.