on this morning, as on every other,
i am a poet of disbelief 

which is better, I think, than
believing too strongly 
without room to be amazed

take, for example, the sun
which sets the whole machine to rumbling
the toothbrushes in motion 
the feet strapped in
the hair still lightly
damp against the collar

what an infinite rambling 
this life is
and how extraordinary 
our capacity for renewal
coffee in hand
jazz in the speakers 

as black holes lifting us up
from another world  

the morning and her trail 
of weather-stained footprints 

as serendipitous and Godlike 
as anything