© 1996 Dave Awl

January (The Routine)

The days are a slow poison and each
night is a teacup full of stars. Leopards of snow
on powderpuff feet stalk the countertops of my kitchen,
while blue moths mass and chant in the air above
my sleeping body. I rise and run through tunnels,
dodge pennies and iodine, and wake to drowse in a static
of dandelion fuzz and august daisies, each time and always
the same crop of dizzy, spinning eyes. Fall down a manhole,
drink the sleep of ghosts. Blink in a silver,
noiseless moment, no exits and no approach.
Eventually, I’ll make a shopping list:
the buses will crouch in the streets like an army
of silent sphinxes as I pluck hungry suns
from the cold, electric winter sky.