Monday, December 16, 2013


Time could be just 
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 
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
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—