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.

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