Most days, waking is the hardest. But it is also when Poetry arrives— stands patiently outside the shower, places its hands on the mirror, wipes away the steam. And then there are days when sleeping is the hardest. The fight of muscle against world becomes so constant, that surrendering to slumber doesn’t promise nearly enough relief. These are the times when hands feel nothing but empty. These are the times when the ceiling fan is left off. When this heat becomes the only lover to hold, the only weight that feels familiar anymore.
