red-eyed cyclorama

holding back
the wash of a
yellow-teal
morning

to abate
the drudge
and sludge
of the following
work-day

hollowed-out
hours stuffed
with no-good
pins and presses

no face
for me to chase
or voice
for me to savor

just the crunch
of gravel underfoot
and the pixie cry
in my ear

what's it like to be here?

before long
the day's song gives up
and the sultry drone
of night
wraps me in mistakes