I was a plate of under-cooked eggs.
You are sprinkled across this roadmap,
the Minnesota prairie,
a trailer on the Haw.
One of you, rumor has it,
works a farm stand in Salinas,
I can see you bagging peaches,
brushing hair from hazel eyes.
It’s beautiful here this morning, hons,
distant car horns murmur,
muted like Miles Davis.
even the pond scum gleams.
A couple of dozen starlings
twirl about the phone lines,
scoring the music of
each unrepeatable breath.