I spilled my oatmeal days
ago. I didn’t spill my oatmeal
this morning | I’m not
sweeping lines into this
earmarked sleep—it rips its
seams—the rain—I mean
to fill me in | I’m not
who can say this
disorder isn’t social
capital, isn’t half of creation
looking over | your shoulder
isn’t the rule of thirds,
the second’s first morning
alone—untucked as a shadow
I must | apologize for
my linearity
this afternoon
has been raining
all morning | I’m not
wearing the shirt I thought
I was—who can say—this tends
to happen—into the air of raw
potential, to speak
at all seems vulgar | a hangnail