The day’s flashing a bit of skin to my left,
or dawn, as scientists like to call it,
is about to have its first bright idea
of the morning, and even this faint glow’s
like a trillion lit Zippos or bonfires
having sex, don’t ask me, I just know
the sun’s coming and how to change
the oil on a 97 4Runner, the trick is
finding a 97 4Runner and a reason
to keep going when stopping
makes a lot of sense, to rest, for sure,
and maybe eat a quiche and apple pie sandwich,
or wrestle the alligator in your heart,
or tell this poem it’s not an alligator
but your shadow looking at itself in the mirror
and wondering where the time went
and if the soundtrack
to your frontal lobes
is an all-flute jazz ensemble
or train wreck in C minor, I know that tune,
I am that tune and apologize
for dragging you into this bog
or tar pit or whatever this is,
let’s start over and imagine
a little painting, maybe five inches
by seven of a shore and the sun
looking over the shoulder of the horizon,
the paint still wet and sounding like the surf
touching and touching
the beginning of something solid,
what we call land but the ocean
calls “not ocean”, and there’s a man
holding a stick that was born
in Europe and he’s thinking
of jumping in and taking it home,
and of the thing he’s trying
hardest not to believe,
that there’s a hole
through everything, if you look closely
at the back of his head
to see the expression
on his lack of a face