Floating in early morning denial Of the impending rise of my self I hear birdsong begin and end, The shake of a branch departed The scuffling of feet on pavement, The rise and fall of an engine’s toil. These sounds feign time Pretending to wake the sun Like the will of some hidden god. I will never rise from this bed For I am always, in every moment, dying. I will never rise from this dream And the pieces will fall away Bird, song, sun, breath, darkness, silence Becoming indistinguishable In their unbecoming. Love always tilts toward death. Furling, shriveling. Awakening is the first moment After which there is no other moment But this.