Mother Luck

Mother Luck

 

Be kind.

This year is sticky and sweet.

My weeks are rotting out.

 

In the canals the water fishes for teeth.

Tuesday is bare backed, draped

over a settee –

too generous with its mornings.

 

My yellow, savory evenings are limpid with trust.

To die like the day does –

More and more color then stardust….

My body grinding its gears

like a Wednesday jealous of Friday.

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