In my sleep, my down comforter
catches fire, in a moment, I am moving
beating the flames with my hands.
I grab at each feather migrating
destruction through the air with its tiny flame.
For not burning me alive,
Let them be thanked.

Like an unhinged barn door
the horse has fallen on me.
Through the darkness of our blood
I can feel the slender legs
of flies walking on my skin.
For irritating me to consciousness,
Let them be thanked.

The library takes all of the books
off its shelves and piles them into the street.
A mountain of worn-out colors is growing
under the feet of those stumbling
handfuls to the top.
For admitting that knowledge is random,
Let them be thanked.

The staff of the New Yorker
champions the umlaut and places it
atop every second vowel in a pair.
It rides right that letter,
and smartly.
For showing us clarity: the vice, the virtue,
Let them be thanked.

In a clutch of pain and haze
the doctors slide my appendix out.
The slimy shivering traitor
lies in a metal tin somewhere, as I wake up
wanting ice cream and feeling less whole.
For reminding us that even we can turn against ourselves,
Let them be thanked.