Two days ago, it rained so hard there was nothing to do but look out the window
and make vague, circular movements on my lap with my thumb. This morning,
I considered the petals downed from the storm and the arrangement they might make
on a sidewalk, but the light turned green and I left them among cigarettes smoked
all the way down to the filter. A guitar, unplayed, leans against my living room wall,
a bright red pick threaded through the lower strings. Sometimes I look at my fingers,
notice their mechanical journey toward the remote control, the umpteenth box of spaghetti,
the handles of a laundry basket or the blue recycling bin. There is so little quirk to add
to these tableaux; their palette stays in limited shades of putty and beige and cream.
The landscape hardly looks like much, but my hands are in the middle of a different dream.