Open one eye
to the drool-blotted paper
to the goldfish swimming
through the weak light of morning
in its sterile spheroid bowl;
see how it moves, always
in the same direction—always turning
away
from something.
No wonder—
you so often presume
to be riding
all night
across the subtle breadth
of some
profoundly smooth corner
and wake up
confused to be
right where you were.
