At night, I have no choice

but to abandon my body,

leave the flesh to tick away 

the desiccating hours

preserved in a cocoon 

of blankets and bedsheets,

warm with memory, 

dishevelled by moonlight

while my cells 

take their time,

prune down their choices 

into division

or demise.

So the morning finds me 

in some form of older.

Prone.  Dazed.  Slammed

into the next day 

by the impatient hands 

of a fitful alarm clock

that beats 

against my eardrums,

and covers the sound

of dewdrops 

evaporating

from the weary grass

cut short

by yesterday’s mow.