#writersshare2017
One Week Late
one week late and the twenty-six symbols still cling to her skirts, recalcitrant, anxious for a look of love, some propitious movement to set them to order
but no, she lies abed, troubled by dreams and visions, the man, crow-pated, who tells her time is up, the flaccid flesh that
affronts her senses, the approach of some small dignitary after we have, seated at the formica-white, fluorescentbright counter, pushed our empty plates aside
and turned to give the great man our full attention (as is only fit)
so it is, in the dark, these scenes enacted on a wavering stage, my hand reaching for yours, wishing for some small red-letter
day to mark upon my calendar, strike it down, in black and white in my book of hours, illustrated in foliage of green and gold