Premonition
The birds talk of nothing. I turn the radio on, the DJ spins

his best mix of nothing. At the park, I throw nothing

for the dog, who chases after it. I brew a pot, get dressed

drive late to work. I run a stop sign, crash

into nothing. I’ve been avoiding 
reflective surfaces: windows, mirrors, the kitchen

knife. The burns the matches leave

behind my knee are too small, do nothing.

I ring my therapist then think better of it:

I’m not wasting $200 on nothing.

The stars shrug off their velvet
hoods, night’s armed to the teeth with cicadas.

The pills aren’t working. Nothing’s working.

I’ll do nothing with my life.