Sleep-eyed and fumbling at the sink at seven, recall the phoenix

posing its weary injunction, no less glorious for fatigue:

Get up, again, undone or ashen—just the repetition forms a radix.
Lazarus too was smelly, pyjama-stank composter-chic,

and surely felt mis-given returning from the morgue.

Sleep-eyed and fumbling at the sink at seven, recall the phoenix.
How, rising from the ashes, gray and powdered calisthenics

overpowered, over-joyed, in a dazzle of burned-bronze wings.

‘Get up, again, undone or ashen—just the repetition forms a radix’
(he might as well have said.) Rising’s the basis for no meagre ethics:

A dying-daily thing, daily dying something upright augurs,

sleep-eyed and fumbling at the sink at seven, to recall the phoenix
who did it again, and again, bathing in the dust, left by a hex

to continue a pattern of recurring resurrection and bear the intrigue.

Get up, again, undone or ashen—the repetition itself forms some radix, in
“Now wash and dress”, “now flick the kettle, glance across the Guardian’s fresh polemics”.

Unsure and not unscathed, but here now, step in the mundane – gigue.

Sleep-eyed and fumbling with the taps at seven, recall the phoenix,

get up, again, undone or ashen. Just the repetition forms a radix.