Tell the shampoo girls
That Sundays are best
For pumpkins
And the horse face boy
Tuesday’s for thought
Monday’s monarch
Rests on a wave
Of noons moons
What days are left in
Leftovers Wednesday
Wire and Thursday’s
Mote. Fridays
Freelancing and
Saturday’s note.
How one returns from heaven or honey
It’s pains how sticky
the farmer, driving his empty
truck through the beautiful
maples of spring, never gets to the telling
of it. Especially as the sage sways
He never gets to the telling of it
Even the way you look up at me
Late in the evening right before sleep
With your eyes that I cannot read
In the gray blue essay of yours
knowing I do not stand a chance
In your ache
We cannot keep silent
We cannot keep silent.
