dawn still happens under cloud cover

5:55 AM
on the drive to your house
all landscape
is dark locked 
and
washed in cobalt.

Some 
horizonal glow 
seems to 
burst suddenly- 
smearing out in 
vague reaches,
finding weaknesses
in the cloud
cover.

It makes
the sky
look ragged
and torn.

Like something
emerging-
under 
tension.

At this
point of the 
morning,
change happens
between
blinks.

A reminder
there's no point 
of focus
yet.

My eye draws 
meaning from 
an 
imagined vector.

The moon 
falling,
the sun
rising,
the stars
receding.

This is
a dance-
belief without knowing
for certain that 
next minutes 
will hold moments
and
moments follow 
each other.

Or even
confidence of 
the next
moment's
existence
before it
arrives;

presence,
not prescience,

measured
by memory and  
expectation
only,

and it
is surprisingly
stressful.

GPS says 
20 minutes
to your door.

My attention shifts
from the radio,
to my coffee,
to early texts from my family;
strange that 
they are
waking at this hour.

I check the sky,
stars are slowly 
drowning 
in the rising
tide of 
yellow and orange.

There's a message
that I want to send,

'I might be late.'

The keyboard
would fight
me every 
finger tap
so,

instead,

I share 
my location
with two clicks
on the dashboard
and I
become trackable-
a part of a greater
existential
metric.

It's really
quite remarkably
idiosyncratically
selfish
that we should know
these things 
with certainty.

Like sunrise schedules,
or the reasons
people wake early, 
or why things
are not as 
they are 
when we
left them
behind.

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