The Days

Thank God it’s Friday
is the only prayer I know.

Saturday and Sunday are sister snakes,
the product of sex times two,

One joyous and wild after so long,
the second slow and sad

Like premonition of parting,
the little death.

Monday is the country
of a poet’s ex-lover.

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Poets Without Windows

I don’t think poets
do well without windows,

She said from her desk,
watching the world go by.

Here I am, on the street,
a pedestrian peering in

Though the old storefront
with just this pane of glass

Between us. Glass is not
a liquid, not exactly,

It’s an amorphous solid,
rigid in structure but arranged

With haphazard molecules
that let most of those persistent

Photons past without making
a scene, turn but a few away,

And trap within fewer still.
The light that passes through

Is how we see each other
almost as we truly are.

The light that is reflected
is how we see ourselves

Through the eyes of the other.
And the light the glass absorbs

Is the restless energy that warms
the space between us.

I watch until you look up
from your work, a quick glance

Toward the street that either
noticed or saw right through me

And sent me on my way
wondering about poets

Who do not do well
without windows.