Morning Routine
The bite of a dog offers no certainty, as spirit catches
within this tower of babel, I stick like honey, as spirit catches.
Living hairs catch and fret as I throw myself into the wash,
where a jury peers and retches scrutiny, as spirit catches.
I wait for an eclipse beneath a canopy of pink dogwood
since there is no breath when ribs are transitory, as spirit catches.
I tumble dry with a thousand slicing words while my frame
sits bravely clear in the warping night’s plea, as spirit catches.