because the rooster does not care about your feelings

i wake up to a rooster, renting

the cold morning with his crows, tender

as the bite of harmattan

sharp pricks of sound

immortalized,

like the words of Rilke

the brain just after waking up

is a befuddled thing

and although my room--its 8 by 10 splendor,

the bare walls,

the couch, a sinkhole, collapsing in on itself--

still hold fragments of the Eldorado

i have ferried over from my dream,

the thought of my country pervades this sleepful

wakefulness

to be alive here

is to be in a dalliance

with death