dormant

i do think it's morning
because the floodlights
in the neighbors yard
outside the blinds are
obscuring the near black dawn,
graveyard white

irises are peeled wide open enough to
see the leftovers, clumped around muddy puddles

deep indigo tinted orange by the streetlights
(what lovely devices that dance
their still shine over the ground)

my skin is purpling, a dripping process
like squeezing the juice out of berries
or stealing grapes off of a vine

the feral cats are meowing,
whiskers invisible in the lamp-lacking room
my coffee is somewhere between bitter and smooth
curdling on my night stand from the night before

i think it may be colder than last thursday

i grind my eyes shut and my fingers 
tangle in the ridges of these bedsheets