Monday of unsayables. Of the misheard & the poorly
translated. Of saying milk & being given meal.
Of people encased in moving metal capsules vibrating
to music that leaks out their windows & hisses through
tires before the swerve. Monday of unknowables. Of terra-
cotta pots that crack in the yard from the heat, &
the man cutting grass mopping his forehead, apologizing,
saying he will replace them if you want. Monday of trees
whose arms have all been amputated, a deep V in the same
places to let the wires delivering electric current
pass unobstructed for miles. Two men on the bridge throw
a fishing line into the water and tent their fingers,
waiting. Wading birds shape their legs into bent
question marks & try to hold still. Monday of unsayables,
of the uncertain heart trawling the sludge for things
the mouth has always wanted to say but couldn't. Like pull
on this thread & see what little bit remains on the spool.
Like touch the sutured-up part to let out some of the pounding.
Like throw me back into the water with all the hundred other
bodies flickering, when you are done with the thrill
of catching & counting & adding another notch on the board.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.