OPTIONAL

Early in the morning morning,

it seems I am allowed 

to use a language which is private

to speak only of what is optional.

I might softly lob dreams
into tautological algorithm 

machines; I may discover 

that a poem is a song—or isn't

much of a poem at all—
but there is no dissent either way
from the audience: the remnants
of eggs and coffee (black),

or the headless sardines
not yet extracted from their can.
And I know how all of that
might come across, 

but I don't have to care all the time

about what is optimal. I say:
let the midday break

as my validation; 

may the sky brighten a little, 

as I hurry off, as if 

I have just gotten away 

with something.