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
