one, two, the cracked eggs stare
up from the bowl, perfect
specimens before being beat
into milk for scrambling or
perhaps French toast, as he
slowly waked to
twisted sheets and last-night
debris, a stocking here, a shoe
there, the alarm switched
off in greedy anticipation of a
late morning lie-in, waking to
hear the dawn chorus only
to sleep again, clutching at those
dreams of blue-black twilight, the
voices bleeding from the radio into
our ears, the black of night edging
away to grey morning, the sky
not yet blue, still unwarmed by the sun
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