Tremulous
and fleeing
the enervating
lingering breath
of winter
and the crude
crush of catcalls
and wolf whistles
from the rush hour
traffic
morning finds
its way in
to our bedroom
without asking or
waiting for a welcome
clinging to the walls
and then flitting about
like a housefly
leaving a watery film
around the room
I raise a numb hand
to swat at it
but the drone
in my ear drags me
from sweet lethargy
and finding myself
on my feet, I think
morning, how like
a fall from grace
you are
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