Gentle Reader
I wouldn’t have you pick up this poem
early in the morning, when the print’s almost
too dim to read. No, that’s when you ought
to be opening windows, the front door,
and walking out to watch the sun’s rays
coming over the ridge. Already
you’ve been transposed
from wherever you went to sleep last night
to the place that wrote this poem.
Before you sit down to read it,
you have to walk around in the almost-morning,
shaking words out of your head, making room
for images that beg for brand-new words.
Empty your mind, the way sleep emptied
your body, so you woke up famished.
Eat. Feed the dogs, feel horse-lips
tickle your palm for carrots.
Shovel soil and prune back branches.
Watch sun pass into shadow. After dinner,
listen to bats preparing for flight.
At last, you’ll ease into this poem
like a goodnight.
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