After a good sleep
And a square meal
A thorough wash.
Maybe a smudge?
A bleach mist?
An exorcist?

When the amorphous become crystalline
A recognizable grid
I remember the reveille
First call
To the space between ego and id.

In another orange twilight
This dawn is new
but I am not
Inside voice reproach:
“Accept thy lot.”

Old thoughts.
Worn groove.

My inheritance is
Chemically foretold
A penchant for drink
And the black dog’s tight hold.

Hope for a mighty wind
And an antiseptic rain
A plague to thin the crowd
Locusts or the Sinn Fein.

Some days I fight
Other days are mired.
Dream of a miracle Thursday
And a phoenix-like fire.