Sunday, April 5, 2020

broom theory

over it today
it as in being
being as in me

we say time isn't real now but
Sunday still knows what it is
the birds sing about it like always

the song about being the first awake
the song about the pit of my stomach
butterflies, possibility, an hourglass

each Sunday is a little death
I sweep out the corners
all the traps I set