Sometimes I will
my consciousness to slip
and it wont,
like it has some tacky life of its own
or it doesn’t fit where it used to.
In the mornings
It has this graceless dance it does
as it comes back into four walls, some sheets
three dimensions,
slow and formless
as if to say ‘sorry for last night.’
It settles into the backs of my eyes
and checks its size in the mirror
like it had a body
that’s different from yesterday
some form of excess
that doesn’t settle
into its own shell.
somthingood 