h1

poem 3

April 4, 2007

Perceiving only one thing at a time,
   I stumble from slumber.
The intermittent snooze alarm–
   and irony in itself–
   chastising me every nine.

First, it is the birds,
   eating since long before now
Each making a chorus alone,
   together, a feeding freight,
   a unison mass, train-like.

Now, it is the stiffness of my body,
   one day older
Under hot streams, washing away
   the troubles of hours before
   making clean the slate.

Now, it is the dream-consciousness
   of a garmet bag.
It is not mine, by the “Zildjian” on the side
And I rummage through it regardless
    of its owner
   who TVs near by.

Now, it is the press of my foot
   atop a shoe string,
Stuck in my shoe with me.
   Fishing it out,
   the slithering sense.

And I press out a wrinkle.
And I press out a word.
And I light a candle.

One thing at a time.
   one step at a time. 

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