It’s too late a morning for what I’d planned,
hours of dream-thrashing that left me sweaty
what I wake up to, instead of the cool and metal sheen of dawn.
The shrunk-down woken-up figures of odd dreams and bad memories
wrestle round my neuron junctions, pulling at threads
and threatening connections that would sooner be left alone.
I re-heat the coffee and guzzle it down like magic,
hoping to thrust my mind through enough caffeination
to rid me of this rough-delivered headache
and release me, forgetting and free.
Quill Aquiver 