where the text on my screen
is in white
on white
and the work’s
humming in the back of the brain.

Tomorrow’s poem bubbles
on that proverbial burner there,
just beyond the memories,
just around the hesitation
just before the sleep clears
and the dream slips slips slips into that crust
around the eyes before I wipe it away.

The lecture series to fashion
haunts my spine in that place
where my dad’s voice warns
when did you get the assignmenti
and when will you begin?
and how long do you have to write this?
Yeah, dad—
I’m working.  

Even though I napped today
and scrolled today
and pumped some iron today
and watched the clouds today
over the Sandias
and went to sit
in the box-chapel
where the blue blue blue sky
slants above the face in the icon  

where silence lives in his almond eyes.