wakes up bare-assed.
the smallest piece of a thread from an old t-shirt
on her eyelashes, weightless,
it escapes her, a strand of cloth lost to first morning impressions.
she can see the kitchen from the bed, then —
‘I make noise’
(first morning joy)
the one with the accent goes on:
‘I make eggs. Want eggs?’
she’s wearing her t-shirt
inside out
‘I’m sorry’
