early middle of the night Monday morning


the black hole of a red skies

and slick wet streets drawing in the eye


always the shaking vividly scoped void

separating the peace of rest and Lord's-Day reflection

and the gray plunge back into the daily shuffle


past Monday midnight

always the most desolate time of the week

to have to crash out of place every day

the common condition that puts us

in the worse possible places


(oh I lost a good thought when I tried

to retrieve it) but it is our governing matrix

and it is just about time for that blank stare out


the window at the wet red cloth of the bleeding night...



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