A Letter From a Hollow Bone
Dear Thursday
though you are a day yet hours away,
yet let me love you.
I write to you from inside a skull
because Wednesday can be hollow and bony
as you well know.
Though you are as yet untried
I am this man of great faith,
not unlike those earlier alchemists
with their gathered elements about them,
their cauldrons and scales,
their mystic science brewing
into crescendos of disappointment, yet
always working towards one more day,
a transmutation to gold.
My heart is in an attic under a dome today
and I write this way so you will know
that love is not a stranger to me,
even though I work alone in the dark bone,
I look toward you with great love.
Dear Thursday, a bright window has appeared,
has materialized, formed I think
from these laden words.
It is full of light and delight dear Thursday,
this Wednesday has bloomed
as a lotus will from the dark mud, and while
I shall always be faithful to you
my dearest Thursday
I must go now for the sun is rising,
a bird in a golden tree sings for me this day,
dear Thursday,
and not you.
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