The Early Bird and other Myths

Oh bathroom window, what are those ash-gray clouds,
needle in the morning’s eye  —

dawn too early in its strange light-threading.
To 6am, I bring another party: 

my thoughts, light and frisky in dark crevices,
champagne-splashed agent of chaos,

so loud, you say, they keep waking you up.
Suspicious of the day’s order — FB couples,

poets in their happy dresses — I say,
mum and dad, they fuck you up. 

The early bird does not catch the worm.

I saw one writhing on my plate, 5 pm, 
in yesterday’s winter dark. 

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