Another Day

—a found poem: Virginia Woolf’s The Waves


I feel the bruised cry of birds in my body

when I wake.


Thinness rushes my pink imperfect heart

and I am cast down at another day—


hands and feet and body.

Here is idleness, brown water, disgrace.


The sun is yellow and laughing

leaves stir and patter across the lawn


and I long for darkness and sleep—

its brass thud, its pirouetting slam.


I lie here and watch the bedroom

harden into night.