though they’d be nice, all that hubbub
and buzz about visitation
and the implicit august nod from above.
It’s more like the flump at the top
of a flight of stairs
that runs out of steps
before you do,
or the basketball
you threw in desperation
that hits the rim for three
bounces, then finds its way
through the simple middle.
Or this morning,
unfolding myself from a dark bed
like a letter to the day
and knowing what to do,
happy to carry a thermos of coffee
to the car and stand fixed in the black pre-early morning,
stars like bullet holes
letting in light
over new snow.
The car that starts. Steam
rising slowly from a thousand chimneys
in this polluted valley and all the sleeping people
fills me.
