I will sit kitchen-stooled,
until just before five,
having jolt-woken at two,
(eyes sleep-slump, too wide).
At these, irregular,
single-digit typed hours,
I dawn-patrol,
gliding, with low-level powers.
Our dog, bed-dead, sleeps
through my keyed low-chatter clicks,
as I tap my life out in,
sequential-stroked hits.
Daily poems, built up,
is my concise crossword:
Lined arguments with gods,
my solution – verb-blurred.