In the bleach-blue light of

                             morning, the reason to

 

                 stay in bed. In the glass

dropped by the diffident

 

                             hand opening of its own

                 accord, a one-word horoscope

 

of nope. In the Muzak

                             playing while you wait

 

                 in the yawning

line to order your dark

 

                             roast with cream,

                 in that sibylline satellite

 

radio, nostalgia’s anti-

                             gravity—the Buzz

 

                 Aldrin of your heart

planting flags that don’t

 

                             wave. In the dream,

                 a prophecy of more

 

dreams. In the crows,

                             take-take-take. In the way

 

                 one word breaks

into another like a wave,

 

                             something you didn’t want

                 to say, though you’ve thought

 

it before. In the TV’s blue,

                             in the sun, the fluorescents

 

                 at work: you, you. Light’s

always lifting dark’s

 

                             rock to find you wriggling

                 there, a worm under

 

the eye, as if that’s what you were

                             looking for. As if it was

 

                 the last thing you

wanted to find.