the feeling of turning a coin over 
in my hand, head to tail, until that sharp
scent of metal rubs off on my skin.

the five o’ clock alarm that never properly rung,
and after having resolved that June first would be productive,
lying in bed until twelve forty five.

mauling over what to make my first entry 
for months and months and months
and deciding that certainty is overrated anyway.

the blinds have not been properly drawn open,
nor have the towels all been collected for washing.
maybe i’ll do it today, who knows.