Right now, I am up with the fallow, pearly morning.
Doing the dishes slowly by hand. Listening to dead
Delta blues men. Dancing a bit, poorly and alone.
Watching the winter sun’s laconic revival. Thinking
of the women I’ve been privileged to in shameful
abundance. Body or spirit, occasionally both. Maybe
I stop, my hands pruned and soft, read a few pages
of Gilbert. Come back to find the sun a few paces
higher. The verdure of dawn now blinding, white.
People more ambitious, more reasonable, are
stirring into the phalanx of a commute. I wash
another pot, three-step another impromptu jig.
Lament and give thanks for smallness, for love
that never lasts. For the stasis of gratitude. For
Orpheus‘ impatience, turning towards Eurydice’s
beauty. The water going cold on my hands.