January Garden

Woke up with: the minute I let “I love you” touch me, trees
sprouted from my hair—

Woke up with: Zeus fatigue— (what ails the nation)

Woke up with: the soul a balm, a lozenge, yet another
pill-shaped thing—

Woke up and recalled nothing— took a walk in winter air—

in the January garden. No one
on benches—

And then remembered—with a bolt—how I’d been
titling a poem in my sleep:

A Little Less, Day After Day, Bomb After Bomb

And just as I remembered, I passed a young woman
at a picnic table, writing in a journal—

And she held—so help me!—a pen shaped
like a bone—

And then I heard the poem:

Each of us, by nature, a killer—

Each of us, by nature,
picking something to practice

mercy on—