This Week In Blues

On Sunday afternoons again writing words as,
the limbs of the trees remain without ocher,
is what begins it. A pronunciation to variegate
the silence from this austerity with lines of poetry.

Arrive Monday, on with carrying of granite
from the open lake shore, after scrubbed of
phosphorescent algae, sacked into mortar
to block the melt of mud and burning wood.

On Tuesday, a drive spurred into requiem
clouds dense with snow on the west interstate,
in a car plastered with road salt carrying
an expectative bundle aching tight with twine.

Wednesday I’m directed east back home,
where the drama of a storm has passed and
now all that is left, a sky since removed
and a seat emptied of what was never there.

So come Thursday, no, it’s the worst when
the end of the week cadence faces the front
of a wall painted with pallid paste, where
stands a man with a litany of private reasons.

Friday, I dream of a small dwelling that sits
in a radial landscape emptied of the enmities
to fog, but only minutes from a town that loses
itself in the thick complications of nonsense.

And on Saturday’s stop bath on the couch,
solution of beer and blues, Lightnin’ Hopkins,
developed images in a shoe box of snapshots,
the latent colored emulsions, the fade of dyes.

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