This morning, I consider the flamingos,       not the overhead light.         Wide beaks & lake

nights       that smell of shellfish & salt-     &-vinegar chips. I consider my toes in red water & fingers

in deep crevices. Fluorescence. Feathers      everywhere.  I have questions & a list 

of complaints. The speculum & my love      in the waiting room. Fast moving clouds. Highways

& deserts. No more trees, only        bush. Dogs on the side of the road. Algae & gasoline

on the surface of a puddle. My palms & wrists.        Warm latex. Trash collection teams

in yellow & orange.              Gas station cookie dough.   Googled symptoms. LinkedIn

notifications. The Lord’s Prayer                   on billboards. Small pinches.         Patellae & pelvises.

Dune buggies.      Boardwalks covered in sand & needles. My eyes crusted shut.    The sun & all

its radiation. By noon,      I’ll have more freckles than I’ll know what to do with—they multiply

like rabbits.