in the early touch of afternoon,
but in the way
of electric lamps.
The sun does sing
loud enough to be heard,
but in the way
of late morning music.
Bright enough to see
and be screen pressed smoke
and in the way
of seeing clearly.
A snow blind August
in half shadow headaches.
The day holding us each
our own ransom.
Whispering sweetly
through the walled in
spaces of four cornered,
glassed in, cube divided
misery:
"give yourself to me."
