Poem: “Sundays Actually”

She brings an old cup of coffee into my black room,

leaves the window open. I

strip down, fleshed, ladle my clothes in a

chemical as if I had froze, perpetuated,

into succinct dimensions, and

left behind are bleached

garments and an even older cup of coffee.

Detach my soul and pin

it on a line, dangle it

above my eyes like leather hide 

half dried of the holy, singed with

cigarette burns of unconfessed sin.

Peel off each of my virtues, reposition them on a

large table near the door.

I want to see their colors emanate,


out the black, keeping me from

flipping the light switch.

Thin light, shafted, healing

abrasions through the stained glass

upon Monday through Saturday’s lashings. A

forgiving time to photograph

is in the early evening,


Sundays actually.

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