What is the poetry of zero
when there is only the quotidian
to paise? Should I invoke some angel bellied dawn?
No. My alarm goes off. NPR comes on.
Soft voices roll the litany of the world's disasters
Outside my window, birds assert territory
the dawn is in reality quite grey.
And from this I should assert the primacy of god?
The ritual of scratching, yawning, brushing furry teeth,
the body parts I sleepily scratch
as I move through bathroom downward
toward the yellow lit kitchen
& my bright colored breakfast cereal?
Out past the safety of wood and shingle
a soft spring rain washes the singing world
So where are you within this empty drizzle
Or are you merely hidden behind these veils, awaiting my irrational determination
to locate something holy
beyond the small truth
of my decaffeinated morning,
oh my god?
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