And I thought it was Tuesday. The seashore
staged the darkness by the sea, the window
failed, like masquerade of summers, to accept
the falling leaves’ light entertainment, the arrogance
of rain, the shut eye need of show-off and projection,
the clockwise misconception of the moons.
On days like that I watch the river river to the sea,
reread my favourite grey sky, practice
how to shout the way it sounds. On days like that
I relocate the furniture at night, count the second
thoughts, sketch out plans of how to help you
not to fall, or how to help you fall
without falling apart. Days like that stretch
themselves for five or seven moons, until another day arrives
to put the furniture in place, to push the night.