Nine minutes — the interval I’ve certified as sacred territory,
the catechism the morning hasn’t yet stripped from my hands.
The alarm fires its grievance at the hour I set in bad faith,
and I trade another round of nine
for one more brief postponement of the day.
Four rounds in and the mathematics have turned against me considerably.
The clock says something inconvenient about the hour I’m choosing not to see.
I’ve bought myself a half-hour out of the requirements,
out of the waking terror —
four snoozes deep and every nine more minutes
is a richer, warmer error.
Nine minutes, hit the snooze.
The only sacrament I practice.
Nine minutes, hit the snooze.
The smallest and most attractive fragment of unconsciousness
still available to me this morning.
Seven forty-seven is a credible departure.
People get their whole machinery running from a later charter.
The day does not begin at six.
The day begins at whatever
the man who is committed to the living says,
and that is whenever.
Nine minutes, hit it one more time — the fifth and counting clearly.
The math has gone from discipline to comedy, but really:
the ceiling has no deadline
and the pillow has no grievance,
and the nine-minute gospel stays between me and the early.
Nine minutes, hit the snooze.
The only sacrament I practice.
Nine minutes, hit the snooze.
The smallest and most attractive fragment of unconsciousness
still available to me this morning.
Nine minutes, hit the snooze.
The brief reprieve before the warning.