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.