His morning alarm bolts his eye to his hand White sculpted wraith In the dawn demi-light each knuckle is sand Moulded by faith It is tomorrow's story, a sleeping claw A waiting gavel It is the liminal instinct, the underground roar Of an unguarded rabble It is wall and chink, a shadow witch A one-winged bird It is the wound which it inflicts It is a word He flexes each finger and each nail inspects And assesses his power And reaches his hand out and presses Reset For he is not ready at this kind of hour.