Today is for recovery and rest.
I dedicate the daylight to my fix.
I’ll hold the dying dog against my chest
whose mess I rose to clean – four forty-six
this morning: dire sound before the birds.
She’s dreaming now upon her laundered bed
but I’m a tired person, short on words
and at the precipice of aching head.

I’ve traveled lately more than I’ve been home.
I’ve worn my contacts every day for weeks.
I haven’t studied Spanish, made a poem,
or contemplated rain as window streaks
since when? I see a Sabbath now. I’ll sit,
till I recover stamina and wit.