Morning Sickness

It’s the fear of tight spaces.
It comes in the morning,
wakes up my mind to my bed,
the blankets choking me down
like a scream.
The dawn in the east window’s too near.
There is no chance my window opens
to a wider,
more habitable,
space;
no chance the leaves of these trees
are less pressed in books,
catalogued by species,
and pinned irrefutably to the page
than me;
no chance my each breath will not smother
rather than refresh
my want of air.
Then I know
I await
a wider
world.

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