Diurnal

Each day since the last one
wakes and folds the blankets,
plumps the pillows, shuffles
into the bathroom to clear the body 
of its accumulated fluids: piss 
and tears, blood or bile. 

Each day since the last one
rubs and blinks its  eyes 
crusted over with dreams—
sometimes of searching, 
sometimes of walking into a room
where a clear figure rises in greeting.

Each day since the last one
tries to feel optimistic until noon
at least. There is sugar and butter
for toast, and work that helps to quell
the thrashing in its heart 
for the rest of the hours. 

Each day since the last one
sifts the kernels of recent 
history looking for the whole
and not yet broken, 
collecting them in a jar 
to place by the bedside.