Sunday, August 19


on Tuesday came
the farmer did lay
his crop down to sleep

no spiked headdress
lay they down to rest
and for a night did keep

guessing yellow rows
middle of nature grown
they’s smitten and doomed

a summer’s day bliss
fought they earth to kiss
and ready to make room

on Wednesday labour
the tracks coupled further
and rolled our heroes into

wheels of gold spun
that now wander in sun
and wander forth and through

Most twenty-somethings are out on a Saturday night at some party, rubbing up against each other and trying to make things happen. Me, I spend Saturday nights indoors, with some booze, my fan on its highest setting and Mahler going crazy. This is why you will see poems on a Sunday. Something about the length of Saturday night allows me to get into the swing of things, and, really, all I want to do right then is just write little poems that are of no importance to anyone at all.

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