November dawn hangs against the window like wet hair.
Arising has become a wrestling match with the sheets,
involves dis-entangling, rolling, pivoting, seeking balance,
defying gravity’s hooks into joints and eyesockets.
The cold knuckle of the wind raps at the window.
Fumble, snap on the light: illumination consoles, nurtures
some hope that the rumours of the sun’s departure are
propaganda, malicious fabrications of the moon, jealousies
fomented and elicited by jealous Saturn, shivering alone
in his sunless cellar.
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