This sloth thing takes over in the mornings.
It turns off all my alarms before I even know what’s happening.
My neighbors assure me: no one comes in or out
unless it’s you. But I refuse to believe
that I could be this hideous sloth thing.
I don’t know how it happened,
I don’t know why it happened,
but I got toothpaste encrusted—
white-limed—into the cuticle of my thumb.
Next to a hangnail,
athwart dead and drying skin:
wrinkles crags, freckles
So I’m scratching at it,
rekindling the scent of mint
and dentist-recommended whitening power.
Outside, the snow collecting.
Have you ever watched a dog
watch the air?
Particles must move quite a bit.