In the soup-
thick fog
of early morning,
the "next right thing"
might collide
with opportunity;
a cool, wet crow
might swoop down
from a lamppost
to make a poem
of the worms
she extracts
without care
from the sopping
ground below;
motions might
well be the cause
of themselves
and consequence
might be their
only purpose.
In a world
where reality
looks so uncouth,
signification
might be ripe
for the taking,
and there's
nothing wrong
with stealing it all
when nothing
outside of ourselves
belongs.
