how apt this sunken cutout by the fire
a slate-floored pit
flanked by carpet,
perfect for late-night poetry
and sleep's ambush. these two years
found a habit of falling certain
that I will get up and in bed
any moment now: one of the more
enjoyable ways to fool myself,
despite consequences
and
as dawn welcomes itself home
a pausing squirrel interrupts my sight
dark grayed and snow-white bellied
as if it slept on its back
too
the way one breaks one day to many
with sleep and other depths
or maintains a shallow continuity;
the goal is both, water freezing
on a frozen drip: -icle just means iced
and my best discipline has always been
to constrain gravity then fall.