Vapour

And one morning
I wake to a drizzle of light,
migraine bursts of shifting memory
that no longer disappear.

And one morning
I wake to find
my face has plasticined the pillow,
spent the night collecting bed sheet wrinkles
that ripple and flow
around a toothbrush mouth.

And then one morning
I wake to a quiet bathroom,
dry towel, hot water,
enough steam to fill a sandwich bag
and take back to work.

There, in stolen intervals,
I study the vapour
and regain lost moments
indulge there clarity,
look forward to other mornings.