When the particulate brilliance through the slatted southern window hits,
I am a morning person. In an hour or two, I am a late morning person.
I, dermatologist, wellness technician, gloopy in witch hazel and snail mucus.
I, skilled bistro chef of two cracked eggs. I, nature photographer,
with my nose in a pot of pollen. I recall dandelion and become
naturalist. I, a teeming pond to a bevy of birthing flies
I, unnaturalist. Respectfully giving space to the deer, I, crossing
guard. I, school child, hands on the straps of my backpack at the bus stop
in the snow. I, musician with my instrument of quarters, conductor, rider, snot capsule, tissue
refinery, I, bipedal wagon shedding bales of hair. I, brown hair left
on the bus, continuing on to its windy suburban destination. I, telemarketer.
I, Geek Squad. I, the knock at your door, and I, the fist. I, leaflet.
I, meeting host. I, portal. I, millions of pixels. I, correspondent
to foreign knots of feet. I, sweat stain on blue sheets. I, droplets
in the washing machine. I, sewage flood and runoff and sip of the deer
with its early antlers. I, mediator between the owl and the stags. I, fancy
useless eyes. I, cones and triangles. I, power plant, plume of carbon dioxide.
I, plant food. I, the sun’s landing pad. I, poll worker in the election of
my body. I, public forum for gut bacteria, policy proposal
for intestinal health. I, comrade in the union of collective garbage
disposal. I, blank slate for the imprint of wet receipts. I, grocery
bagger, artificial intelligence. I, spendthrift. I, accomplice
to the woman accused of shoplifting cereal at Kroger late Saturday night. I, the night,
and I, the cover of darkness. I, traitor to my country. I, secret entrance. I, great escape.
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