Clavicle, and it feels like your hands

nyuh, titles kill me, but here you go. there's a line...a line that I hate, but I can't improve it. :P
ah, the moments of waking.



I sleep
bare-backed and
unbuttoned, wintry thighs
kissed by the chill
of May, sheets coiled in
tea-leaf shapes. Pictures
flutter on the walls, an expenditure
of light, open
windows breathing thumbs
across the bed frame,
my right-sided clavicle.
Somewhere inside
the womb, my hips begin and
ankles end, an obtuse
slant of knees
knocking
on your bedroom
door.

I shift and
sigh.

My socks are what touch
the ground
first, legs over the
edge, shadows in the
leech-light. There comes
a transition
- shower hiss and
silent sway - in
which the wh-wh-whiring
of the ceiling fan
is the closest I come
to the sun.