Soul-fog

Here, this nest of my being, home
 today gives hairline fractures
 in a noncommittal mirror — 
 a scrub jay in tidy morning suit
 deceived by a lump of compost, 
 a single red salvia blossom
 haloed in mid-morning sun — 
 dissatisfaction edging every gift
 of imminent arrival, every parceled
 named and pasted endeavor
 slated for tomorrow — 
 as if Monday were an excuse
 for soul-fog, for turning the eyes
 and wasting time, time after precious time
 adrift in that listless mirror