So, you get up.
The thing is there pulling you back down the lush covers.
It’s on you, and also around
shadowing, weighing down.
It’s seven-thirty, you think, or eight? Five? Four?
Probably your fourteenth snooze or something.
It’s sunny and bright and blooming spring
outside and yet you feel
absolutely nothing.
So then you ask and you talk and you wonder
so—
where were you?
Right: you were asking for “peace” but you,
restless,
got distracted
and then,
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