Jim Fisher

But for the weed that gropes my eastern wall
     and spreading ficus near the fridge
and spider plant on the window ledge,
     daybreak inspires no life at all.

The sun that rakes the hardwood floor
     and strikes dumb cells with UV beams
greening the leaves on aggressive limbs
     abhors the darkness in the corner

wherein I swore, lives before, to rise
     with these first rays. Wherein instead
I remain in bed, as loath to stir as the newly-dead—
     As grudging with words of praise.






Fuck off.