The Day

— Len Anderson

In the morning a dream returns
to its beginning where I have already
eaten up all of my parents’ yellow furniture
and learned fourteen kinds of reality.
Wanting more, I let go of truth.

In the afternoon I see scrub jays are holding down
the day shift while the walls are sullen
and won’t even speak to me, so I strike up a tune
with a stem rose and a thirsty hydrangea,
open door after door into heaven after heaven
and let go of God.

In the evening I hear the owls punch in
for the night shift and I look up to see the ceiling
is wearing artichoke underwear.  Just then
my love walks in and asks me my one true name
but I can only think of thirty-nine,
so I let go of being.

In the night I can hear the ferocious burning
of tender stars, yet can’t get over
the startling sensibility of trees,
so I lie back, held in the arms
of everything, and let go
of letting go.

This poem is currently published at the online Santa Cruz literary journal phren-Z:

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