Dave Bonta's "Disorderly" is a tiny poem about the strange, unsteady feeling of morning arriving. The opening line calls morning "a poor shirt," as if the day is something thin and ill-fitting that we have to pull on whether we like it or not. It isn't grand or comforting. It's just what's available.
The speaker then lets this morning "sing" their "sand body" into the present. Sand suggests something loose and easily scattered, a body not yet fully gathered together after sleep. Being sung into the present sounds gentle, almost passive, as though the speaker isn't forcing themselves awake but allowing it to happen.
The last phrase, "out of order," lands with a small jolt. It could describe the mind's jumble of thoughts, or the sense that everything feels slightly misplaced. The mood is quiet, drowsy and a little humble, accepting the mess rather than fighting it.