Should have written this down when I first woke up,
after living away,
came back,
charged by some vice to take notes:
about, candy wrappers and sunflower seeds scattered on the subway tiles.
Too tired to gleam,
or shatter.
God was a sexy chef
cooking up atoms and chicken.
I complained about having to go to work,
and she said to look for the words somewhere else
before it all became too much.
