the golden god of morning
             stands up    smacks its head
                        against the cloud ceiling 
                                    and blacks out 
                                               under a circle
                                                             of cartoon birds peeping
it’s always the birds
            that make me glad
                        to be back 
                                 their    sparse    cadences 
                                                 scatter 
                                                            over the dream shadows
which drop away
            like clothing    scarf
                        on the chair    sock
                                 on the stair    a sparrow
                                               brings me its nest 
                                                          in its beak

half glance in the mirror   my mother’s eyes 
            set in my father’s skull
                       and I’m surprised    to find myself
                                 still here
                                              in this tangle of twigs and dreams
                                                         and the nasty comfort of coffee
I guess I’ll stay another day 
            perform the necessary
                         laundry   food   dishes
                                  a single offer
                                               of kindness   to
                                                           it doesn’t matter who