Yesterday an open mouth
on the floor of the sea.
A nation playing
bloody knuckles
with its own hands.
The television rattles
when it's not on and
when it is, shakes
the house. Yesterday
every photo was rubble,
ash in the coffee, blood
in the milk, something
desperate about
our typical consolation
of rescue. How
can morning plough
so smoothly through night?
Today a sparrow flew
into the spinning spokes
of my bicycle, and
out the other side.
