By the time to go is gone

Sun between windows
numbers deciding their shapes

Two crows in sync & constant distance
or my eyes arent talking to each other

As the song on the clock radio
keeps going after the alarms turned off

Picturing the over- and under-tones of this exhale
as my ears breathe, as my eyes off-gas

Do dreams evaporate or just crumble
flecks small enough to slide between the folds of my brain
but where—some unknown sluice for the forgotten
to seep into my large intestine

Done with morning maneuvers, the birds
are having coffee, checking their phones

The suns blinds the digital clock—88:88