First thing
in the morning,
emerging
from the furniture;
clockless time—
arriving completely
as a package does, as a
newspaper
slaps against
(imaginary) edifice of brick—
light through blind slits:
hieroglyphics,
staff paper
to the musical novice.
Any guesses? Any requests? Any hints?
Hamper, bedside table, pull-
chain combination
fan and light fixture—everything
is landing—
nothing sticks.
a stiff rug,
winterwarm, the
summercold
hardwood—seasons pass over.
which
day is this?
