Another Sunday

And the eggs have been broken.
The bacon laid to rest. The belly of the dishwasher satisfied
at last. Oh, satiated coffeed world with your mind

in reverse and your soft body bound in flannel sheets,
how have I come to you again?
In the crash of weekday waves breaking

on the splintered porch, in the gravity and weightlessness
that hefts this ball of earth, its rotation part ritual,
part benediction. How I covet the hours

we will spend in the endless hedge grove
of banal and quiet tasks; picking up the magazines,
shaking out the doorstep’s mat.

In the yellow state I am in I cannot divine the day
or fathom a future form. From here it’s nothing
more than alliteration of motion. Though the calendar

pinned to the kitchen wall gapes in silent notation,
all attempts at formulation remain null.
Tomorrow I will don my grease-coat of complaint,

my lab-wear of ego. I will stand in the doorway
and admire the way the shore so soon becomes
the ocean floor.

(Appeared on