Some days I want nothing more than to lie
still in bed, listening for the subterranean,
for the slowing thud and pulse of the blood.
Then someone asks from the next room, Isn’t it
the first day of spring? or Do we have any more
broccoli in the fridge? A sigh passes over me
like a butterfly or the shadow of a wing—
my feet touch the floor again and I smooth back
the creased field of the coverlet.
In response to Via Negativa: In the wee hours.