wrinkled fingertips
canyons carved by droplets and droplets
forehead sighs with cracks

mist in the mirror
joyous splash of water
from luxuriant tap, made to look antique

like this face
only god forgot
to make it also dignified

face the bark of oak
when looked at closely
only no one wants to

mist in the eyes
white shadows, black shadows
at night, when the bed creaks sympathetically

for it is solid, it knows
that the night will pass, every one does
every one passes

no it’s not reassuring
because at night, you’re face to face
with shadowy prophets

When importance of purpose,

When it fails to knock on your brow,

As the fingers, mutually exclusive,

Smooth imperturbable napkins

That today are called serviettes

And abundance of herbal entrees

is measured by the strings of loathing

Because, let’s be clear, this is not something you’d expect,

On a day like this, surely,

Because on a day like this, of all days.

Ah, but let’s not forget our g and t,

So as I was saying,

when pleonastic duties of congregation

noted on paper-clipped papers

when they cluster  like a great ball of snow

when you know there’s no Spring.

Then it’s all on your shoulder to carry.

And you’ll do it.

You’ll do it.