the day is weeping

If I close my eyes, and tilt my head back, and mouth the words, to a, dirge
I can pretend we are around a table in an afternoon, only if.
I can feel, only if, the sun, and I am breathing deep, and I am singing.

The day is weeping.

The arguments are less convincing. The sun drags behind it not a million colors-

all the colors. I feel, only if, in black and white, advice steeped in depression
era fancies. If I close my eyes, and tilt back my head--

The day is dead.

Such busyness is lead. It’s finished, waking up, walking out the door. It’s
finished. Reasons to believe that I could be wanted, for labor, for, labor,
to learn. If I’m not wanted, let me know.

The easier to let me go.