Early Hours

I sit awake in the yellow swell of dawn.

My eagle is hidden between chipped floor boards,

covered in wax. It might be teh leaves

stuck on the bottoms of slippers. A telephone voice flutters

between the mirror and the wall. It is my mother,

she's buying a new car. Glass-beveled edges bend the sound.

Her voice drips into my eyes.

Beside the mirror there is a leather bag

filled with toothbrushes and ware--

this is a campaign. But here I wish

I was a stethoscope.

I need a novel about sleeping,

I would read it,

and then not dream.