The sun cuts across my bedroom.
My compression vest cuts
across my chest, keeps it
not in line but flat.
The sun is a knife, okay?
It’s not good at buttering.
My bedroom is not butter
yellow, but too dark
in some places, then far
too bright a slice strikes
across it. I find myself
hot with exposure.
The vivid morning copies
my mouth. A slice turning
in on itself or disappearing.
A slice turning up
or upside down. I flex
my hand but the sun isn’t good
at shadow puppets this early.
I make a dog, his perky ear,
his wide waiting mouth.
Nothing to catch or cast onto.
When my pinky cramps
from holding the form
I let the dog go.
I’m practical.
It can’t stay. A stratus
moves in. The sun must
be bitter, but I can’t
see its shiny edge
or shiny slices. I trace
a line across my breastbone
for a long time.
Enough to learn
the pattern.
Enough to not want
to get used to it.