Reading Into It
9.30.06

Puddled on the sunflower comforter
one milky side sloping a white beach
where buried beached whales strain
against the sands, hoping some
starved wind will unclothe bleached secrets,
I pretend that morning is a sleep-creased cheek
easily smoothed away

However
it’s too early to be thinking in symbols
and shaman-signs, so, just for today,
would my Mr. Coffee percolate
without personification?