Awake 4:30 a.m.  Find there is no sun, nor moon,
rising.  No star amid the haze, the morning mist
of pre-dawn companionship.  There is no one
this side of nocturnal embrace.  Without dreams

you and I are interstitial, waning black with pink
at the edges; wait and see sailor’s warning in red

morning.  A beginning.  A partial, impartial,
story.  A cat, inside a box, deciding itself

living or dying.  Weigh the disparity:
wake or return to sleep, to shadow

worlds, where waking means distance
and slumber means meeting the lion.