With a cracked rib,

at midnight I begin to flow
East, around a sticky bed,
like an hour hand on a clock face
- incremental, low.

At 3 a.m. I, snail-slow,
crawl and push my head
towards a warmer Southern space;
quivering for its glow.

At 6 a.m. birds’ melodies
turn me, a mechanical fool,
Westward, now a climber,
and up the bed I creep.

At 9 a.m., colder seas
turn me in my pool;
I’m North now, a returner
confused, awake, asleep.