The Log in My Eye
Here is the day stretched thin with its hours
arcing stiffbacked from sunwake to stop-it-goodnight.
Here is the day with its hours fanned out for us, shall they be pushy-loud,
shall they be quiet-slow? Who gets to ask the questions?
Here is the day just waiting, holding its working hours ready for me to be ready,
there for me finding the minute to pounce. Who gets to read the signs?
Here is the day love-tough, lace-old, and me walking
right through the middle, eating the hours like air macaroons.