The swelling goes down a short time after I wake, though on some mornings I have to wait, lying in bed, like the living dead, ahead of the ring of the alarm clock, that part of my awakening in some other time zone the sun has not yet reached, the turning of the planet, tides in my blood, swelling, the throbs of need I feel, inspired by dreams to which I cannot always put a face, though my conscious mind later assembles a line up of suspects, wanted posters on the wall at the post office, leaving me to determine which culprit is to blame, though I already know who it is, who it always is, even with my eyes still closed.
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