cast forward, making monsters on the
white wall of Sunday. this repeated
rhythm, this tide of our lives . . .
she takes her crucifix, her anchor,
and heads to mass for harbor. half
the house sets forth with her. my
heretic sons and i, waiting for word
from Rome on the annulment,
read Crane, yawn coffee, suffer
and pace the deck blistered with
winds from the outer
galaxies.
there is an army coming called Monday.
a dark Alaric in the center of night
planned it all, laid a fuse with ripe fruit
timed for the bursting.
now i, faustian, squirm before those
demons. i have tasted the sweets
of Friday evening, eaten the lotus
of Saturday. but now the bargain -
someone's, not mine - comes
round.
tic, toc
tic, toc
tic, toc
"look there, look there," she breathes,
i say. it is only 3 in the afternoon;
there is life in us yet.
then i stare at the chalk lines
of this batter's box, the
blurred edges of our square
surrounded by hordes, madness,
depression, hordes,
my wet hands clutching
this weapon passed down
from antiquity,
this
sword
slim of
poetry.
