DOMESTIC TRANQUILITY

Human voices wake me

Into a kind of dual use 

Facility. I am astounded out of my clothes

Through the murk of a broken clock. It

Addresses time as an equal, reminding me of quick and easy

Recipes for disaster. Behind every hour,

You are there to be sweated, as no small matter is 

Your dark engine I imagine. 

Under orders of dark, the cosmos curates a snack
On a night dripping with warm fuzzies
Slowly steamed away. Hell must be all we're
Cracked open for, opines the fridge door.