For an audience of threadbare towels, the first cup mimics the next across the kitchen table. The birdcalls at dawn slip through the ancient windows & under the door that too often stumbles on its track. Between the crow & the crawl of the newsfeed, there wobbles an uncanny resemblance. A crooked mirror in which you brush your teeth & examine the temper of Wednesday, ghosts of a blue hydrangea near the bottom of the driveway. Now the stump out there becomes a dog: one spider, then the delusion of spiders everywhere. Under the increasing light, the growl of a faraway mower paces the cage of its lawn. Other than thunder—those clouds that no less brood as the hours double & hurry to their burrows—there’s little warning of the rain.