Featured Poem: I Wake a Little Earlier Each Morning

You’re certain that they’re
harmless, benign as a flock

of founding fathers, the same
dignified postures, dropping

gnomish blossoms from
their black palms—

but the missing must go
somewhere when they leave

you. There’s a flicker in
the atmosphere like a second-rate

spy with a pocket mirror,
and the trees,

the trees aren’t talking,
they’ve got nothing to say.

You should get up early.
You should force them

to admit
what could be gone like that.