Crank

There is a bird 

that calls out 

in the morning 

just before the sun

decides the color of the day

that reminds me of the razor 

clicking on the mirror

the flavor of ether, talc

a tinge of blood

and cleaning product

stubby beer bottles 

choked with cigarette butts

hollow shaky chatter

of others

and our scabby hands 

reaching for any certainty 

in the next line.