Morning/New Poem (Rough First Draft)


I’m awake early,

pushed upwards

from a horrible dream

– a hot blast of death.


I need to cool my veins,

the thin skin on my chest

and neck.


I leave the cabin barefoot,

the ground is white wax.


I move carefully, quietly  

down the hill to the fjord,

heels torn from my forest

walk the day before.


I kept going through hours,

up past the tree line,

trying to climb the scaffold

of my spirit.


Light bleeds from the North

and I listen to the night’s

farewell whispers.


I divide my thought,

shrug off ashen years

when my voice didn’t reach

my mouth. 


Today I will follow

brave impulses,

desires pummelling

fists against

my breast bone.


It’s morning.

I’m awake early.