Today I’ll Sit Still

Today I’ll sit still.

When my dog shuffles over and offers me

his fleas and his soul, I’ll turn away.

To everything I’ll close my eyes,

slice the darkness and eat it.

I’ll refuse to give money on a platter

or a wet kiss under the moon.

Today I’ll just sit

and say No to everyone and everything.

To the book on my desk, its sad tale

of abandonment, remorse and death;

I’ll keep it on the tip of my tongue

like a lukewarm dime.

No to the daily mail with its greasy fingers,

no to the telephone and its humming

through the carcass of a sparrow,

no to every projection of the self.

No to me, this preposterous accident

who speaks of the “self.”

Today I’ll be anti-social.

Today I’ll grow into myself, be the river

of my blood, the sky inside my eyes,

the maze of my ribs, the dust that settles

on my heart. I’ll let my bones sink

like pebbles in a pond.

I’ll let my feet grow roots and be an extra zero

on the checks that I’ll refuse to write.