Monday, July 11, 2016

DAYS OF THE WEEK

Relentless
terrible
weird inky impositions

of will,
somehow go
on pressing their
desperate fingerprints—

thousands
and thousands
after thousands of iterations—so

stiffly
and
dumb into

a harrowing ghost-
white
paper back-
ground radiation

of everything
that
never was—

until, positively
clucking
with rapacious excitement,

even the tiny
tip
of the tongue
of the
dog knows

you eat those

slippery
buttered noodles
after
work every

Thursday.

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