And 4:00 a.m.
is full of 4:00 a.m.
I ought to sleep, but instead ponder
the mandate collect yourself.
What does it mean
to reclaim bits of oneself?
The eyeball that rolled towards the radiator,
a crest of hair flouncing near the door jam, thoughts
plastered on the wainscoting like so much paper.
Should I arrange them on the windowsill
for further observation? Show them off
to other collectors? Later, these bits will appear
to move as one; a functioning assemblage
of well-oiled parts—it will grind
coffee beans, take down the mugs and make
nice with the toaster. The part called the mouth will holler
your eggs are ready. It will,
in unison, pause, blink, sigh,
put on some Brubeck and take to couch
with The Times. I can see it now
reclining against the red pillows,
moving the cat from lap to carpet
while the bit called the brain or psyche thinks
about accomplishing something meaningful,
and soon feels guilty for not accomplishing something
meaningful. Later it will pay homage
to our lady of swirling laundry, search for signs of life
with the remote control, hope
It will, as usual, realize that dinner is a given
and peruse old recipes, drink red wine,
—anticipate a shrouded Monday.
And all the while this is what the sign above the door will say;
Survey. Repent. Collect yourself.