Is It Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday

IS IT MONDAY,
OR TUESDAY,
OR WEDNESDAY,
OR THURSDAY,
OR FRIDAY

There is so much hostility
On the sidewalks,
So many traps colored magenta
Because owls wear dark glasses
And angels have stuck
Gags in the mouth of leaves.

It's a weekday, although I don't know
Which day it is. It's not the day
When spiders sparkle in their webs
Attached to stars. It is the day
When the trees wear damp clothes
That cling tightly over the curves
Of their bodies, quiver,
Shake water into the air.
It is also the day the trees migrated.

I watch the petals of my desires
Fall off, drift down from twigs,
To be anonymous in a pile, to
Accumulate by curbstones until
The street cleaner brings oblivion.
I've forgotten arithmetic, forgotten
How to count. I don't know how
Many fingers I have,
But I know
One finger wants to touch something.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Poetry Magazine