to me, reels with anxiety, as if each line ends abruptly and leaves the reader hanging, waiting for something more, maybe even waiting for the narrator to emerge from his cocoon and flourish into bloom--
but instead, what the reader finds is that the narrator is struggling from bed, searching, fumbling for some awakening, and bakes into his stare at the sun--a product of his own thirst.
at least, this reader did, anyway. very short, simple, and to the point--and probably the simplest way to describe how i feel when i shatter from my mattress each morning.
(this should be permanently imprinted on my alarm clock)