I look at the picture of being born, a flower sun
like a sunflower, but bigger and brighter
as if I never could reach the sun,
be born in it
I am always reaching, up and sometimes not up,
sometimes over and around,
in my bed, my body reaching around and around itself under the covers
sometimes I think life would be wonderful if I just stayed in bed
then I don't push myself, pull myself,
stretch, reach to the sun
instead of being born there, like a flower
with misty eyes or dew
I don't know how to be fresh in the morning or drink the dew
every morning is weighted by every other morning,
and all the disappointments I drink in my sleep
they are somehow like wine, strangely overfermented and stale
still I strain, to drink, to be drunk, to get somewhere beyond,
to grow flowers from stale wine
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