Mornings

Open stage, windless instruments.
That early-morning alone with
wintry boughs cracking.

My knees are heaped around my ankles.
There is a crushed pretzel, its grains caught
between the rug loops, sticking, static.
Shadows are ideas from the windows: Muted traffic,
Church bells, someone searching for "Michael!"

The joints in my fingers have crumbled.
My hands lay beside me like empty plastic cups,
sideways and left behind.

Everything has happened already.
Elephants have fought here -
There are moon craters
where our feet danced,
there are mosaics
where we smashed bottles.
A discarded t-shirt flowers and molds in the corner.