The Shift

The window frame is swollen with the damp,

jammed half-inch open where the cold leaks in.

I’ve been staring at the ceiling, feeling thin,

waiting for the oil to burn out of the lamp.

Then the first one starts—a sharp, jagged note

that cuts through the blue-grey fog of the room.

They sound too happy for this kind of gloom,

with too much oxygen inside a tiny throat.

My coffee has a film, a translucent skin,

and the chirping is a drill against my temple.

Everything used to feel so much more simple

before the light started letting the morning back in.