Early morning in bed,

I think of the humid air outside,

but somehow it’s gone

away by morning, the cold air

outside the door

cooler than the stillness inside

the house. The garbage truck

squeaks by, dropping a thousand

past interactions in its wake.

It swerves around the corner

like the driver’s dead. Forever

on brand, we act out

our greatest inequities in

distant asides, wish the best

for those we imagine ultimately

to be the worst. My student

tells me of reincarnated

babies who choose (or don’t)

to return from the other side. Maybe

we’re all sacrificial when boiled

down to bone. I think another

thought just to make its

opposite unfurl in the light.