Snow, 5:37 a.m..

The first gentle push of humanity found talent--
Stitch me up a curtain.
Make me a cane out of
Reaching wood.

Destroy the colony of moths eating me
Using sugar to fell their wings,
Using water, any heaviness really, that
Easiness to be--

To be.

Prevent, too, these caprices of magnificence
As what I build does not bleed,
But nor does it collect interest.

Allow for a before that I might
Return to it afterward,
Forgive my moment's pause,
My talent fights--it stutters.

You are awake I know,
And if awake means awake to me and
To me availed which though unlikely
Is ideal, then your talent is awake too,

Needing to correct,
By curtain or volition
A vulgarity not beholden to
Wishes.