EARLY WALK.

Orange is turning purple green as the harbingers

of a February sun wipe slates to a shine.

I am enticed out and about to where the moor’s wind

has descended and become a street-corner bully

using its blade on my eyes; the rhombus doorway

now has blurry edges and my cheeks are wet. I walk.

Later, the grumpier of Brian’s waitresses asks,

Why don’t you ever have an egg with your breakfast?

Returning, I sway. Wrapped in duvet, I wait for sleep.