those first
three-or-so minutes—when it's still
okay to be wonderful-
ly feckless
and prostrate—before another 8:10 a.m. parade
of work-a-day sensations
comes reckless-
ly traipsing our way;
when I feel so slightly
permitted
to yawn and to
say, so sticky—I had
this dream,
and you were in it;
and then,
to struggle recounting such
harrowing nonsense
as infinities
of our strict
syntax can't manage—and then
to just think—what a glad
relief it can be
to lay that drooping burden back
down—easy in our warm
brown
mattress on the ground
before we raise—
on the count
of three—the rest (or should
I say: slight
majorities?) of us—to finally get
up and start
flying apart—
