so gather up the dust
that dwells below bed,
the real stuff of dreams;

shake up the gross
rug and flatten out
its peaky-pesky hairs;

rub clean the mirror
stained with morning
rituals, daily prefaces;

scrub off the soles
of shoes that strain
yet carry on always;

unglue the thick mouth—
that is, the door—
that must open now;

strap down the stone
that wiggles and
hesitates but holds;

patch up the eye
that bleeds light
and oozes life;

apply soothing substance
to the rash of blue
that breaks out above;

seal the thin cracks
that trace path-
ways of brown rot;

stuff the pale jute
rough sack with
wet & dry sustenance;

air out rooms:
let curtains flap
in undue anti-
cipation of flight,

and push shove
open up and burst
windows through
prickly wind runs
chase it in its gushing

and blushing and look
here you are
another morning
just hit you over the head
and you just yawned
yet here you are
looking into life again