Every Morning There's a Halo...

How do the sounds blur and
run together
like so much watercolor
paint, splattered by toothbrush on the
canvas of my
brainwaves?

In tiny little droplets, that's how,
shimmering all the way down
the water spout,
tip me over and pour me out:

in a one-two motion,
I wax on, wax off,
and learn that
waiting is.

And looking at the past, like
seeing through reflections
to a less real world
helps me grasp the
current angle.

Angular
features, he looks like
heaven on a silver platter--
or maybe
just
the better mousetrap.

A pulling in the jawbone
reminds me why I'm here, and how;

and I am ceaselessly amazed
at my knack
for living through
my self-destructive motions.