the alarm sounds.
we faintly hear crooning
a relic of a dream, perhaps? or a memory?
inside (inside, always and again inside)
this massive confusion
this watery globe
so we foist ourselves upon the day
we brush our grainy teeth
until they gleam
(this is America)
though still the sleep is stuck in the corners of the eyes
this miracle? or tragedy? of fire
cuts into us, and cleaves us from the tuggings of somnolence
coaxes us into the web
(we breathe it in, out)
with the raking of the past over us,
with the swoon of music, mesmer, cloud, transparent wings.
we make toast.
we conduct ourselves.
or so we believe.
Impending catastrophes aside --
(and though they lurk so heavy,
they evaporate as quickly as the flit of a tiny wing)
inside (always and again, inside)
and the crooning
still audible, wafts in
july 9, 08