I wake up at 4 am, the clock’s projection light smatters red digits on the ceiling
& I consider the prophetic insight of my freshman composition instructor

who said corporations would soon advertise through satellite billboards in space
while the fan with its singular adjustable purpose lends me a mantra for free

& I must have left the cap off the pen & fallen asleep because the bed sheet is inked
with cobalt stains I trace back through the steps of my dream about a terrific lion

who sleepwalked into the kitchen, grabbed a pawful of grapes, sauntered off to a dark soggy nook barely visible from the window through which rain fills the streets & sloshes under the tires

of a car driven by a couple unsuccessfully articulating their communication problems
while my wife snores through all of this and I know I need to be better,

this year I’ll learn how to can peaches, untwist a smile, speak with necessary words
& claim for myself a particularly catchy brand of sky

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