Tuesday Morning Poem

The radio orchestra starts
on the flick of 7:06, a few bars into
an allegretto. Elbow climbs

the pillow, eyes unstick. Stand easy, trickle
long and somnolent, sigh. Sour mouth -
so cleanse with snowline water

and sweet brushed mint. Having no fur, begin
to do what Adam did. While ‘Mozart began
this work in Prague, in the early summer of (buzz)’,

make light, make fire. Take milk
from the domestic frost, and water
from the waterfall. Eat. Drink. Dismiss

the poor old dwelling that peered so briefly
into the dark, and shut its mouth. Pad off
into the measured day. But this day

silence! Neither voice nor bird! A milky mist
is wallowing in the streets! The pole, the shelter, and the little
picture of a bus have gone! One of the cloud-mountains

has conjured the town away! This is not Tuesday,
this day has no name. Turn then, and find the key;
turn back where such-a-day

the players all step out of the radio, and the last dancer
turns it off. They are my guests; they become
my hosts; they say they are going to rehearse

The Fantastic Toyshop, and ask me
to play a soldier, and I tell them yes.