I chop fingerlings and carrots for dinner,
roast them in olive oil and rosemary and thyme;
eat potato chips instead.
A boom fly fancies my throat a home
so I pin him to my window,
Friedrich Nietzsche lulls on the TV,
I do the laundry;
the sheets will starch or wrinkle
in the city’s soft heat,
my sister on the phone says she has an essay
due the next day
& the next day & the next day
& the next day & the ne –
the flame of my maple candle
is starved for oxygen
(I think I am thinking too much
about revival against the will)
it puts itself out again,
I grab the lighter.