Barbara Daniels Six A.M. I'm thin in the blade of a knife, curved in the bowl of a spoon. I lick the fingers I've slathered with jam. The old need sleep, yet they're up early, ravenous, asking for sweet rolls and coffee. Nightbirds shrieked down my chimney, wrenched me to wakefulness, bursting my dream. Look out at the silvered darkness, bareness in trees, gray leaves on wet asphalt. You were right about pain. It's like boredom—long days, soft at their centers, nothing to do. It's the season of shadows. I eat my fruit cup, spitting the seeds, bearing the sour taste of rind. I love diners, these radiant churches. Of course we want objects the eyes can desire. Whipped cream drifts on sumptuous cakes, last night's remainders quietly spinning on lunar trays. And my dream? I toppled gallons of paint in the garage where Mr. Rowenhorst hung himself. I couldn't clean up the whiteness. Don't you remember his wife, years after, sweeping the leaves?

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