If I could lift my arms

If I could lift my arms, I think
I could carry on like this for hours
drifting
     west, middle
west, east
I settle, pushing my shoulder blades down my back
as the yoga woman says
she knows horizontal comfort, like the back of her
eyelids, five a.m. the city workers are sweeping
sweeping, with long whisky brooms on concrete, sweeping
my eyelids open, to think of instant coffee
is to think of finding fault
lines in my morning biscuits, I love
to say biscuits instead of cookies, it seems
so proper-
ly understated, but maybe it's perfect, the way
these biscuits are just sweet
enough, dipped and soaking
up the bitter brown through pores, until
it's time to decide, do I reel it in
or go fishing after the earthquake