Dawn Lingers Too Long

You measure your body through a window. Once you fit, you go outside of yourself, where the sky is missing. Sit sideways looking over your shoulder. A part of a person is stirring unmade coffee with a memory. Another part stays by the windowpane glancing edgeways into a cold tongue. Yet another persona is playing with the squirrels. The wind is in from lost town, You find yourself observing the nerve endings of bare branches, even the trees push their slow thoughts through you. Shake mist out of slip-shod slippers, then follow the claw marks of small birds back into the room. Today so far, is impassable, wind-whales block most routes, they are pushing drifts of insomnia ahead them. The sunrise glimmers, shedding layers of frozen hide. On the other side of a windowpane, watching the light roll over rumpled blankets. Dawn hovers between night and day, it stays too long, while time and place shuffle you like a pack of marked cards.