Caffeinated well
enough but still—she's walking
dead and
pinched around
the shoulders and
neck; stuck
wondering—stiffly to her
empty cup
at the hellish-
ly winter pale
weirdness—of any such
insidiously
light
and mysterious
force that could possibly
rise any earlier
up than
she does—seemingly just
to coerce her
unbearably
heavy
limbs to come
all the way
dressed every morning
before
abruptly dissipating—giving no
warning
and taking neither
credit—nor responsibility.