Some mornings I awaken with wet eyes;
tears precede my opening to the light.
I’m in a place I do not recognize
at first, my head still cowebbed by the night.
Deep shadows want to pull me back
to mindlessness, deep soft and gray.
I am an overwrought, limp gunnysack
too tired to lug into another day.
To have to re-imagine this old haunt
that was our world—to touch, to walk around
our furniture estranged—so desperately to want
yet lack the sense of being homeward bound:
these are the courages I must begin,
to live a story you’re no longer in.