a writer crawls
out of his mind’s eye
wrapped in bed things
fingers dead things

his diction groggy
teabag soggy
bleeding coffee
and allegory

clickety-clack
the faux light wraps
and swaddles him in moon-blanched strands
of wistful tales from noon-drenched lands

the goslings are out again;
butterflies have it easy
two months, two years
and too many verges –
an author emerges