Skin Tight Morning

Skin tight morning
the air all rich
and lacquered
in the sink is a light
so many colored papers
comb wet stuff from my hair
the planet tastes
like combusted chicken
I ride my bike to work
and the weather snaps
I feel okay for a man in Brooklyn
someone left a cookie
out on the ledge last night
Keats died in Rome
when my hands move
I am a dancer
calm down until the wind
suggests an escape route
through the field
seeing the Proust all sagged
with water I froze with that
years ago I need to forget
more than I know
from now on.