When you wake, or fail to sleep at all

slipping beneath centuries but
asleep in ten minutes
snoring hungrily
in twelve

there is a quality of malice in that specific type of breath
drawn like a bow
poorly
across the rusted strings of a cello

snoring can be adorable exactly once;
after that, it is the sound
of carefully plotted
murder

but:
in the warm light of breakfast
when we can be troubled
for that particular ritual

the dawn gives way to a few seconds
of space, and peace, and ownership

of faculty and forgiveness