seven days a week... the intervals in between
can shape twilight into scented ambrosia
and turn noontime to boiled potion of tan,
dusk smears the sky darkening bronze
while the night, a textured chameleon...
the shrill and serenity of minutes
can blaze the air with time's ecstacy
or numb the splintered liver of pain's regret.
is this a week
that pours of subway’s sweat, then glitters
evening with a vault
of celibate, white stars? coffee and newspaper
expire as the hours dwindle into pieces
of unknown sighs: a clock
without hands cradling an endless space
bathed in the moist kiss of dawnbreak
floating on a veil graced by
life's alchemy, unbidden...
seven days a week: a deep hole lost
in a melee between men and beasts,
defining not the terms and conditions
of human traces that linger or stain
the lines of meridians blending haste with
there are no answers,
i just wade like a child becoming a fetus
without all these adult specs rendering
in seven days a week.
Space and Time Contest
use of small caps is intentional