I wish it was 10 o'clock in the morning again. I want to take back
my ill attention with the lawnmower, the way I careened all over the grass.
I want, instead of my second cup of coffee, to have walked outdoors
in bare feet, met the day looking up instead of in. I want to have risen early
out of soft sheets and soft hands and opened the day like a tin can, turn
by turn. An hour ago, I wanted to lose myself in a poem,
and now I want that hour back, because I couldn't find it.
But the room I'm in is the room I'm in. The words are shaking
in front of me now like a wet dog, erratic and rare as blessings.