The sleeping one is erect and mumbles. The room went Arctic overnight and his foot peeks outside the covers. You leave his warm slumber five minutes before the new hour, stomach growling, and possible moon somewhere. There's slight moisture still. He'll later say he saw you leave. The day will happen soon enough— peanut butter sandwich, dropped knife, tote bag of graded papers. Flossing in a colder room, planning Jefferson myth-debunking, washing hair—the man's sleep stretches without boundaries, rolled to middle, as if it were his bed, thick lashes, even beard, and no concern for pillow. He doesn't know it's October and you are happy.
Sort of Coping
Why is anyone in the world so terrible. Real catastrophe
and catastrophizing. If we only knew when it was going to
I saw you put your hands on the floor. Intimacy without
The scope here of memorization, planets. The history of children
sitting still. You are so cute in all your facebook photos.
When you moved to Portland I forgot we used to call you
Tumbleweed Tex. All those barking dogs, feathered hair.
We have something in common I never mention. I wish
I’d written it down and folded it into one of your piles
saying I want to read every one of these books! Do you think
you’ll have read them all before the end of time. Did you go in
to see her when she was dead. Maybe you already knew.