for Sara Lee cakes and a return address
at least until I’m eighty or employed.
You drink a distillation of appetites
where people come and go in somebody’s blog
You imagine the skull of unborn mushrooms
or blank trembles, bad dreams, and thin clouds
a place not unlike a small island catching rainwater
not that there’s tea time away from
what should be home but isn’t but
institutional like digital locks on doorknobs
where attention, interest, and encouragement
grow everywhere but under my feet.