Casually, a sleep
                  undoes it.
                  The limited,
lackluster

premonition
                  of my days
                  parts its dusty waves.
I wake

from drowning.
                  It is morning.
                  Lowering like wings
into the room,

a toneless
                  singing balms and balms.
                  It’s deep
as grief

and bitter
                  with relief
                  long sought.
Why did god not,

a moment sooner,
                  when I most needed,
                  come and feed
me?