I wish to sit by the window and read—but not
outside, where UV rays intrude, and wildfire
smoke, and gunfire, and bird-shit dropped

at random. In my mind’s eye the outdoors
wounds but does not break the skin, like
the nip of a puppy as opposed to a hornet’s

sting or attack-dog’s bite. Still, even here
the doorbell rings, my son asks to play, the
ground quakes, the computer dings insistently—

everything conspires against this book, for what
profit is there in poetry? In the book of life
there is a to-do list: prepare your will, chisel

a quote for the tombstone, stuff your resume with
achievement, that the mourners have much to praise.
What time to read? To sleep? And when, at last, I doze

off, I dream my eyes are windows, the willows
are eyelashes, the clouds eyebrows: If I do not
hurt myself, what can shatter me here?