On days like these there is a thawing quality to waking

On days like these, beneath
the mostly muted sky,
the sun takes indulgences,
kisses adoration into the
cobblestone streets, kneads
radiance into each curve,
taking time to rehearse
the escape, to permit
in his absence a forbidden
phosphorescing, a public
grief, a shimmering sorrow

There is a thawing quality to
waking, except – instead of
melting – there is a
pulling together of atoms,
an activation of senses,
a bonding of nouns to
verbs, a slow architecture
of understanding that this,
this is waking, balanced
on the tip of numbness,
with only fractions of
milliseconds to decide
which way to fall