the dew placed a soreness
to each blade of grass, when april brought
the tryst of dawn, less
noticeable when sunken into
the morning's veil. then
spent six days in bed to convalesce, peering
at the alarm clock through a hail
of blankets. my bedroom has become
a closet, some smaller still.
on through the endless drone of
these Massachusetts nights, the truckers
drove the damp fog through their faces
and in a new subtlety, were
immersed. The squirrels have a
secret prayer that brings
their god to steer the trucks,
from a new somnolence, away from an imposing path, into a tree
on the side of the road. Another lost
in the name of this dedication. now
we continue