The Somnambule's Crime
Insurgents Demanded Thursday
Wednesday on that bridge with which the city council have replaced January’s balcony I play a sort of casual distance in the center of which I am writing “February Reveals Her Tiny Feet” but no one in the convenience store considers it a convenience. Even if it was wearing shoes. “A Train Abandons Its Smoke In A Verona Snowfall” is wearing its shoes so I compose “A Horse Invented Ballet” for March to ride into the distance and across the bridge to the poem “Insurgents Demanded Thursday” Wednesday. Tuesday. Monday. Monday is having sex with an old Wednesday. To the right side of April’s bed there is a poppy floating in a warm glass of champagne and—just a little further to the left in a dark niche— a lectern is caught in a hat-tree. Three weeks pass like a blonde piano and then today is not Monday or Wednesday. So there. Sunday. Saturday. Friday. May.