A too-loud clock
pecks at the bones
of Monday morning.
As minute after minute
trickles to infinity,
the table cracks
rearrange themselves
into a portrait
of The Sacred Heart.
And walking on water
or raising the dead
is easy today.
This morning,
I watched your ghost
slowly emerge from this bottle
and the middle distance
of memory.
Outside, on the wind-stripped streets
lunch time figures
are scattered like dust.
A passing Volkwagen throws
a surprise of sunlight
across the room
and violet and purple clouds
have gathered to
a single frown.
Through the absinthe
invulnerability,
loss is as dull
as the edge of truth.
And the afternoon
grows and grows
with all the fragile certainty
of who I am
laid waste.
