Fog this morning drugs the fields
needle disappearing in my one big vein.
I don’t want to sleep. I am trying
to pay heed to the motivational poster
framed on the far wall. Beneath a lighthouse
shooting its beam into a storm, it implores
me to discover the limits of the possible
presumably by giving myself over
to the dark regiment of waves crashing
against the shore. As usual, I find myself
at a total loss. And once again it’s not
my failure but the very attempt at all
which terrifies me most. I won’t let
either eye close: heart monitoring
the corner, daffodils on the sill.
In the window, angles of intersecting
roofs, a sculpted pelican perched
atop a weathervane where real birds
land to put on their black suits, to watch
what’s happening in the luminous
vacant room next to this world.