though they matter much less

and their constants are much more flexible

or inconsistent, but free and private

things were scattered in the morning

and I was only trying to find a way to

lay comfortably

heaped on top of heaps and waking is bound to bring alien echoes

of items this and that category aches and twists to the cerebral

absurdly twisted in the sheer bulk’s cloud as it reconnects

among plans and the unplanned

a mouthful of sand worries

then the hours of the day

seven things I saw today opening the shutter for a slow exposure

three were unlucky things I would rather not see

four were lucky so I call it a good day and of course the things I couldn’t do without

a bent icicle on a car a rabbit the sun

a commercial announcing doom

an eyelash a puddle a mess

a penny makes it eight of course there is always more

but a whole pile of pennies of just about everything

somehow loses its luck picking and choosing may be the best part

when I closed my eyes the whole lot

returned to heap form and floated

formless in a heap, this now is the end of the day

it is nice to be sandwiched in sleep

a daily chance to be alone with my heap

to tinker with this disordered experience, no one around

to tell me it is all useless junk