Small Hours

The LED digits are bleeding blue

across the carpet. 3:14.

The streetlights are humming a wire-sound

that makes my teeth ache.

I am full of sand and old decisions.

On the wall, the slats of the blinds

stretch out in a long, dark ribcage,

breathing when the wind hits the glass.

I’m just waiting for the light to break

so I can pretend I’m awake.