until the day is made of quiche. until
there is a reliable telephone garden. i watch as
the weekend weakens & crumbles
off the side of a cliff. i think
my ancestors lived on a raft
in the middle of the ocean
where they fished for sea jellies
& fed off only salt. because of that
my body doesn't rest. still thinks
we're going to tumble into the deep
if i shut my eyes for too long.
i am addicted to early. cutting a hole
in the day & drinking from the ankle.
there is the screen door & then the field.
a cow is turned into delicious
for a pair of hands. i wonder often
about the lives of wild dogs.
do they sleep as much as my house dogs
or are they more like me? i am suspicious
of all beds. they might be
a special kind of monster, ready
to clamp down & chew. i see mouths
where i know there aren't mouths.
standing in the shower, i consider
this is as vulnerable as i get these days.
in another life maybe i will
have eyes like house slippers.
blinking open. butterfly nets.
the sun, spilled orange juice.
saturated yolk. my opening.
the day holding a broom. there is
nothing i can do to stop myself.
i walk around all night
holding a can opener. sleep with it
beneath my pillow. pry myself
from all my curtains, veils, & delights.