after a photograph from the invasion

I am not the man dead in the street.
The daughter is not my daughter.
Every day I wake, eat an egg, some fruit.
I pour last week’s yogurt into the milk.

Who am I to want? Every time
I shape the question the ends fail
to connect. What I mean is: crack a word’s
shell to find in the yolk another word.

I exist because oil scalds my face,
under my clothes, under my skin,
under the ape of me and somewhere
in this chaos of protein exchange.

So I put on the leash and the dog pulls
to the top of yesterday’s hill.
I open the screen to yesterday’s emails
and I eat an egg, fruit, yogurt.

I sit on the couch and think nothing
and the dog licks my hand. No,
I think about the man and god
licks my hand. I think nothing

and the dog licks yolk from my chin.
Today I will eat an egg, some fruit.
So what if I have nothing to say?
The moon is a ball of borrowed light.