I hear a whisper through the door. I see
legs before me like thick or thin
I can’t tell, logs. Not really mine. 
I can’t be bothered to move my
torso, but a tan arm empties 
three packs of sugar into
the coffee. I am trying to revive 
myself or something. 

I am a body moved
by a great force. I’m no 
better no worse than the rest. 
I watch my feet shadowed
black charred but cold. 
Fingers on my left hand tingle. 
I hear thought’s friends. 
I have learned to trust my intuition
but I still crave control.
This explains why I am still awake at 3. 
The grass curls itself.