Here, this nest of my being, home
today gives hairline fractures
in a noncommittal mirror —
a scrub jay in tidy morning suit
deceived by a lump of compost,
a single red salvia blossom
haloed in mid-morning sun —
dissatisfaction edging every gift
of imminent arrival, every parceled
named and pasted endeavor
slated for tomorrow —
as if Monday were an excuse
for soul-fog, for turning the eyes
and wasting time, time after precious time
adrift in that listless mirror