More and more to think about, then “someday”
simply won’t be.       Skim this or skip this.       Severe

or severely.       Tomorrow White Center, I’m reading
the writings, and right now more than ever: Wish

and ye shall fire-work, mow the grass, hold hands
with birds.       Clearly, a couple of beers don’t hurt.

The sun going down in a puff of pink smoke,
Agnes with a handful of violets and phlox...

But these are just my mental notes, going up in a blast
of anxiousness and warble.        The concrete situation:

I’m sitting in my office.       It’s actually the next day.
I’m writing in the morning.       What I’ve started

I started last night, and now recalling yesterday, early
rode my new black bike, but today I won’t when I feel

like running.       Agnes has a fever, so she didn’t go
to school.       Crocodile tears.       The pigeons of Pisa.

Jumping all over is a glorious business, but when
the space station crashes I don’t wanna be near it,

the stars quiet hunters, as I zig-zag along. Blanking-on
and blacking-out, I wake up weird and shiny.

Often when I’m dreaming, there are messes
in the wings.       It’s no big thing: Life is sloppy.