If I do three or four small things each day I

think I’ll be all right. Water the four o’clocks

with poison seeds like peppercorns, the scarlet

 

hibiscus raising yellow stamens, white-starred

Madagascar jasmine, the orange out of bloom

still smelling sweet. Sweep and mop the laminate

 

and the kitchen’s white squares of tile. Write a

check, stamp the envelope to keep the lights on.

Wash and mix pale garbanzos, blood-dark kidney

 

beans, the cold rice vinegar clear lymph. You’re

tired, that’s enough for now: Lunch made, thirsty

roots slaked and reassured, floors clean as unused

 

china. The TV will play its tragic news, at night

the lamp will burn when my thumb and finger turn its

switch, this room will shine as if a log were kindled.