Roman

Short Night, Long Bags

Composition begins in the morning.
Notes pile up, prepared to be cut apart.
The enterprise is partially oxygen starved
beneath a night fallen down under-slept.
Coffee pales in slumber comparison.
Backwards clocks reject synesthetic directions,
while ringing the bell, taxing each ear.
What's expected, what's surprised,
jut convection, rut surmise --
sand lets water over
unless it's piled in bags.