by F. Daniel Rzicznek

I walked a circle back to my front door

Knowing what animals know of death

A few hawks resting there rose off

I put the glass down, over the spirits

The best of them swam to the point

It’s what unspools out of me all day

A few more dogs down in the surf

A list of wounds multiplied by regrets

And the want to think without thought

I darken the room, count the patterns

What it amounts to is four meals a day

I am the near-stillness of the pilot light

His aluminum shoes, his light blue jacket

I grew his hair and wore his clothes

Became the uproar at the omelet station

Something about it slippery, secretive

Or whole, or parted and then made whole

A weapon that eats and eats and eats

Everything on the table, everything kind