All That Begins Today

Boston is a bubble of noise
and I am sick of noise.
I have missed everything
and even my own hands
seem to miss me.

The morning is sick in the belly
and I am its undertaker:
I blow the leaves,
I look up to the trees,
and see nothing but birds
welcoming me.

There is time now
to discover the rings,
to stack them vertically,
to spin them around and around
until my doubts buoy up,
and drown.