Went to borrow
skin from Johnny —
back soon. Call if you need
anything — will be going by
the Louvre on the way home so…

~~~~~~~~

Have the kids the dog and dragon
Back by 3
Left something black in the fridge for you
Better than it looks! 
love

~~~~~~~~~

Did you pay the ferryman?
He called twice

~~~~~~~~~

Had to run to the ice pack
Forgot the reason why —
hope to remember
before I get there
Don’t wait up

~~~~~~~~~

Don’t open the cellar door!
Will explain when I get home
Remember I love ya

~~~~~~~~~

Peaches
We needed peaches
That’s right, peaches

~~~~~~~~~

I left 40,000 dollars for you
under the eaves of the old shed

I spoke kindly of you to Them
I hope it is enough

We aren’t likely to see each other again
for a long time

You would be best served by
forgetting me

as I shall forget you
I promise

It is morning, someone says,
though I could tell that by myself.

My first thought is of the landscape
near the closest football stadium.

My second is of a scrap of paper.
Upon it these words: “your prime

is seven.” My next thought is of
an esoteric cabal of crushingly

huge men chanting prime numbers
as they thunder across the world,

because this early I’m primarily an engine
for cobbling together random things.

It is morning, someone says,
though it’s obvious to me.

My next thought is that I ought
to sit up in bed and see how I feel.

My first action is to sit up in bed
and see how I feel.  I’m still lightly

furred and a little clammy, drier
in some areas than others,

afraid of social media, angry without
cause, desperately in love.  

It is morning, I am saying it clearly now,
I am the new carrier of the disjointed day,

next up in the relay.  My first true action
upon others is coming soon.  It will be

angry or loving or based in fear — wait:
it will be angry and loving and based in fear.  

Don’t be afraid — it won’t be large.
It will not assume the guise of a linebacker.

It is morning, my leaping little thoughts cry.
Count to seven, push aside the covers.  Get up.

The world needs me.  People like me
are the sand grains outside the oyster:

we are many, we all have pearl potential,
some become random irritants, but most likely

we’ll just be the bed upon which
beauty happens, mostly without us.

It is morning, someone says. 
Get up, dreamer. Make yourself useful

or at least practical. Useful
will be a stretch at best.