JESSE DECLERCQ

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MIGRATIONS

Upon waking, the near middle hours of the morning,
The alarm sounds and you wish the snooze button
Could be adjusted to sound, say, every ten minutes
Instead of every five. You lift yourself; not having seen
The heavy bags from a night of frantic thought,
The glasses of water, the late hour book,
The straight pours of vodka, the listless internet searches,
The news pages on the screen, the more bizarre pornography
Of others who have made similar migrations
In different directions than the one you now occupy.
You allow the snooze alarm to steer your direction
For the last few moments of dream drenched sleep,
An eternity between or stretched out in the sudden splash
Of a lonely raindrop gone too quick for you to notice
Amidst the many, many, many others.
Or, you nip the moment in the bud, so to speak, rise,
Don morning clothes to hide your nakedness, and struggle
With the dark wet of disturbed sleep.

In summer you set the stage for yourself,
After either course set upon, either in the open air
Of morning creatures and the cool stillness
Of the new day, your mind reaching out, reaching within,
The day ahead demands attention! Otherwise, it is a dash
To the four walls of watersoaked warm
Where the face is not so much put together
As assembled by the necessity of a pre-established ritual,
Personalized and inevitably pedantic in pell mell amphitheater
Of consciousness attempting to organize itself for the arrival
Of the orchestra, the conductor, and finally, the crowd.

In fall, there will be migrations of couples
From partnership to matrimony; from rural areas,
Areas of woodlands, dark copses and open sunlit meadows,
To cities. Single men from corporate structures
In outlying areas to another clean precise facility;
Or, men from one resort town to another, sierra landscapes
Built in the mind to house the adventure, the body.
In the fall, there will be women moving from urban areas
To the rustic charm of less developed occupations.