Morning Routine

p
o
e
m
s

Some days I get up to run but then
just sit in spandex and write poems.
Is the fog lifting or the trees rising? Who cares.
Nature transfers blood into the air. We are
its lung cancer. Its trans fat. Its addiction.
Some days I get up to write but instead, clean
the horrible beans from the night before,
beer cans on the coffee table. At the window
the insects are bigger and scarier
than the month before.
They are giving their last Hurrah.
I creep around like Nancy Drew
with my hunch and no real proof.
All things feel preordained, repeated.
My body is numb. Without anticipation.
I sit in the lobby of someone else’s potential,
thinking it is my own. I go about my day
convinced I am immortal.

Bianca Stone is a poet and visual artist. Her most recent book is The Mobius Strip Club of Grief (Tin House, 2018).

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Further Reading

 August 14

Williamson is neither a kooky radical nor a spiritual crusader, but rather a thinly disguised conservative moralist.

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