[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
MORNING
I hear morning through the walls. Through windowsills, cracked and pouring cold, voices, cars, and bits of neighborhood are calling out.
Surely I should know by now how to live, what I believe, and what I doubt. I am a year older, wiser, not figured out.
I am sure that this will all let up, that dawn will come, show shadows, show the dust, fill the room with furniture and stuff, and find me out.
I will see what I had penned to page in the hours before the sun had raised its eyes to look. It’s grace.
Surely then at last I will know what had come, what had gone, and what will go, and I will lie awake in light alone and breathe.
Though I’d like to make it up, I’m broken down.
