Woke up with:                 the minute I let “I love you” touch me, trees 
		                                   sprouted from my hair—

Woke up with:		      Zeus fatigue—                 (what ails the nation)

Woke up with:		      the soul a balm, a lozenge, yet another
                                                   pill-shaped thing—

Woke up and 		      recalled nothing—	   took a walk in winter air—

                                      in the January garden. No one
                                                  on benches—

                                      And then remembered—with a bolt—how I’d been
                                                  titling a poem in my sleep:

                                                  A Little Less, Day After Day, Bomb After Bomb

                                      And just as I remembered, I passed a young woman
                                                  at a picnic table, writing in a journal—

                                      And she held—so help me!—a pen shaped 
                                                   like a bone—

                                      And then I heard the poem:

                                                  Each of us, by nature, a killer—

                                                  Each of us, by nature,
                                                              picking something to practice 

                                                              mercy on—