Lids drooping of wakeful night
Regina Spektor in my ear
preaching the consequence of sounds
Tuesday morning on the 17
rounding the corner onto Eat Street
Restaurant Row
a winter-pink sunrise
vaults off my chest so hard
I lose breath
and all day my mind
that shade
of pink
that shade
between cotton candy
(before blue was the thing)
and grandma’s lipstick
that shade
smelling of genesis
the pink of new flesh
fresh wounds
soft tongues
exploring new mouths
that shade
a moment
into crisp December grey
of brain matter
and elephants
and cold oatmeal
on my desk

and suddenly
it seems to me
bathed in numbing
that the real important thing
about life
is knowing when to widen your eyes
and when to let them close.