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| from Robert Grenier's poem Fall Winter Family Home |
it is a drunken, fitful sleep which you wake from at 6am. your eyes crack open like prehistoric eggs. you fetch a glass of water from the bathroom & swallow it in round, hard gulps. each mouthful is cold and metallic. yellow street lamps glower at the musk grey sky. it is the day before your birthday. you have a headache. you say this to yourself in second person in your head without realising it. when you do realise, you are embarrassed. The floorboards in the hall squeak as you step over them-- through the window, a sliver of moon.
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