Slow Sunday goes slow.
Slow in the rivers and
slow in the beds,
slow to feel the shivers and
slow to feel the head.
This is not my hand,
that is not my face.
Every last thing
photographic in its right place.
It's hard to stir. It's hard to stir.
Who are you and who am I and
where are we and exactly who died?
Comfort over histories I can't remember
that drew us, so exact, and so together, but
now we are apart again
by the force of eyelids
muscled away from dreams and
the seems are busting
with little grace and I would pay you
if it meant I could recall your face.
I can't so I will not and I will
see you later
when you have more money and
the week is closer to ending
the six day tirade.
I love you. For the same reason.
Sundays. Let's put on our faces
and go out.
