Waiting for the four hundredth degree
and pressing the seam on the biscuit tube

A hungry daybreak stalks creatures
at the edge of the sky, it tans peach
and lime at the crack of cabinet doors
the darkness of night’s cupboard

Some ticks and creaks from the oven
heating and the silence of no rooster at all
spilling into the now-comes light

Waiting is the promise of a surety
a door-knock could steal its bell, but
the biscuits, as soon as anything
are due, they’ll be warm, and well met

it’s still here

a sour feeling in its stocking feet
the drip coffee brujo divining
a caffeine poultice in the
filter basket, his sweat lodge
as his supplicants pace the ceramic tiles
eager for blessings

a fitful sleep is begging to be recalled
to stake its claim on waking territory
already invaded by packs of wild obligations
our noses in our notes
obstacles of tempered steel loom
that still life painting
in the hallway taunts me
with its confidence, its sense
of fulfillment, its dubious claim
that things can bypass the madness
and simply come to rest

what appears to be real
does indeed appear as real
it’s all an inexhaustible network
of causality where even
impertinence is sustained
and the logic of what’s allowed
to be admired, or to be shunned
the judgment
ease back, ease up
the rough edges can be deburred
by the embrace of ease
and small talk, clinking glasses
can later be heard at
the judge’s chamber door
if you listen, really listen

that exquisite stillness just before dawn
I slept through it again
but it was here, it’s still here