Constellations exhaling,

the moon is full of nobody, the night

blinks its eyes at me and your letter

on the desk.  A spoon in my belly-

I needed that-all blown to bits

with a horseshoe.  Saddest thing

I ever deserved.  I guess I've fallen

pretty down to earth again, off my high

horse or high chair or punk

rocker again.  All blown to bits.  And now

I can only repeat myself, because

there is almost nothing to narrate.

I go to bed late.  I wake up early.

Make coffee.  Feed the Daisy.  Take her

out.  Check my email.  Worry wart.  Then

when the baby wakes up, I talk to her.

I make her a waffle, plain, and an egg

scrambled.  We listen to music.  I tell her

I love her.  Smiling mostly I have

every reason to be happy, but I am only

a knock-knock joke I won't repeat.

I go to teach.  I say some things.  I leave some

out.  My computer's stupid.  Nobody's there

in the rib cage beating.  Pretty down to earth

again.  I wake up again.  I go to bed,

and it's true, man, I don't bow down

to anybody.  I have every reason not to.

But now the night blinks like a creature

under water.  I tell you and everybody

I love you as always, but I am tired.

I am constellations.  Lately I am

second thoughts, can only growl

inside myself.  And outside myself

the blowing to bits.  So I read the baby

a story, which helps.  Goodnight rabbit.

Goodnight old pal.  Goodnight kerosene

lamp and glucose and glass of red wine.

Goodnight accordion and boa constrictor.

Goodnight hockey players bloodied in a fight.

Goodnight layers upon layers of signification,

like too warm blankets covering

my face.  Goodnight associations.

Goodnight deconstruction.  Goodnight

letterhead that made me wake up.

Goodnight clouds, and goodnight

preamble.  On to the amble.

Goodnight amble.