8:57pm catches my eye, as I read about Biden's vulnerability,
and listen to the assured drip-drop of the kitchen sink,
reminding me to think about past lives,
as if I am copy-and-pasted into a collage
with a sterling girl and a terribly terrific late sunset.
I want to be part of whatever movie she has going on in her head.
From Wednesday to well beyond the horizon tightrope,
where walking is juggling lives, sometimes ten
at a time, turning like knives and coming down blade first.
I have a date on Wednesday with a sweet friend named Adam.
He and I will meet on the internet and watch Devendra play
from behind the comfort of our rosé glasses; his heart
is being threaded and tugged, too, so we have common ground for song.
Can't wait to get stabbed and put ink inside the open flesh wounds.
We all know what it means when we immediately wake up
and go rummaging for battered books, green copy
of not me, not this time, those breezy columnar poems
that changed my life and still; she wouldn't wake to choose me,
but I'd still choose her for breakfast before anything.