Sundays I am Full, Not Me

[You] Script stitched
the inseams of my legs
I would like to ride it out till Thursday
if I can
I avoid hot baths
distract this temptation by braiding
felled telephone wires
no one needs them anyhow
we might as well make art and table salt
from the things over which we might otherwise trip

Boards fill the arched windows
indicating the interior is more than shady at night
cracks spill that familiar artificial quality
fathered by fluorescent tubes

If I were a native of this town,
I’d devise a new calendar
based on absence and the reflection
of gathering sidewalk moons
and the cracks that fake us
into jolly arms smashed
between a glass slide
prepped for inspection

Man will gaze down at our limbs
naming each after a day of the week
everything between the follicles
of Thursday and the cuticles
of June

Jazz hides in the cement
with little crevices where ants assemble
in configurations
which from outer space
resemble chevron and gingham

Alas, the neighborhood hound huffs them out
chews on the housing of my wire corn rows
I beg the wet of his nose to translate
the cursive I walk