Time yawns
over the exhausted linen,
at best a tiresome
acquaintance.
An ersatz luxury,
specious sensuality,
the palm of the day
opens to you.
The suggestion is
space is too grand
for error. But
Doubt
seizes you
by the
crotch.
Sunday equals Monday with
matching moods of pianissimo
air.
Repeating,
reciprocating tasks
echo.
The charge of bright
thought falters at the turn.
Emerald theories prove
dust-worthy.
One wants an island
large enough to think.