The emptiness of accident
amid spastic clutter of clock

and phone is not a syndrome
or savory topic ripe

for family brunch, in-laws
creeping around with tea

on the careful carpet. Weather
steadies conversation, politics

seems safe, who do you like
in the Rose Bowl and how’s work.

The virgin splatter of morning’s
first light, after a wailing

sleepless night, shivers blue
through birches. A cold pinprick

sun rises in the west, backwards
in the bath mirror, like a wish

reversing memory into wish,
throwing light but no heat

on the standstill starry mobile
and the emptiness of accident.