The Wake

This is the first hazed morning of the twentieth year of my time.
My bloomed perennial hands unfolding to button flies in the dark of morning.
a blanket cracked open and shivered as I leave to
gas the pedal over four lane interstate,
back to the city in which I sleep.

The expectant wisdom of this day
is groggy mute
still from the chloroform of adolescence,
and I have left my chest’s thumping furnace
still nineteen laying with you in rest.

I do not need this—
aged calm.
Hoping still to believe
that the earth is flat.

I have found no voice of reason
in the predawn of this new and sputtering age.