I do not speak in the morning

Born in the afternoon
my first hours are loaded
with gravity, thunder
and light flashing cloud.
I miss the cosy waters.

I am tired by morning
tired of being bound
by the white heights of the world
its deep green walls
acidic angelic tunnels
I swim upon
my fatty sweet drool
my last look at god.

It’s the noise of the world
leaning into my lungs
into red morning
the exhausted hand of sunlight
I never get used to.