Why must I be the first one out,

Each morning, houses sunk in fog

And locked along my lonely route?

The one whose unsuspecting face

Will catch the threads that spiders draped

Across their darkened hunting place?

Who finds the oily-feathered crow

With stiff claws upward, just before

It bloats with flies? I’ll never know.

It’s so conventional to prize

Wakeful attention, we’ve grown blind

To how it wounds our naked eyes.