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,

pushing

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,

weekends,

Sundays actually.

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