Mother Luck

 

Be kind.

This year is sticky and sweet.

My weeks are rotting out.

 

In the canals the water fishes for teeth.

Tuesday is bare backed, draped

over a settee –

too generous with its mornings.

 

My yellow, savory evenings are limpid with trust.

To die like the day does –

More and more color then stardust….

My body grinding its gears

like a Wednesday jealous of Friday.

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