Fall Aubade, with Window and Buzz

Somewhere a me
beyond me. What gets up?
Drifting white dots.

Blind spot. I get it mixed,
was it Out, brief
that or damned candle? Miracle,

trash trucks at all
our houses equally early.
With red stems make pink.

Yellow jacket, yellow jacket,
in whose world are you? What would not
this sack but a filled-in blank

get up to? Hours, and I'll
be out to lunch, have read the Oxford's
eight pages of Get: On, going,

over, past. With mandrake.
As in know, collect,
As in the big It, as in git

to a pesty puppy,
poor thing, it's only
its own

geiger-tail, paddle-paw
self, so what can it do
but wag and dig, breakables falling,

ground flying out from behind.