here finding myself awake: swing
these legs out of bed (something
resembling purpose, ya) open the blinds
and let in the cold January sun.
be here in a proper moment find
life in a fresh cup of coffee, the scent

of supper simmering in a slow crock pot
fill the space with light, with air and
these smells — proof of life needing
living an urge rising from bone deep
something all sinew and blood rushing

rivers on the verge of flooding
pushing mud and broken bits onward
to a basin an ocean known only in dreams.