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.

The Apparati of Flight*

Sinew hinges, struts made of hollow bone,
feathers to catch the air, to gather it up
and shape it into dreams that hold us

Aloft.  Forward we pump ourselves, wingbeats
and heartbeats, feathers aligned against the pull
of prevailing winds.  Hope, yes, is one thing

With feathers.  Another is the egg.  Whole
or broken, it is a beautiful reminder.  But
this sky, too, is made of pale eggshells and

The sun, a yellow-bright yolk.  Take wing.  This day
is born to flight, it calls us, crow-caw, goose-honk,
and we are lifted on the buoyant light of love.


*Like a prayer, I repeat these words seeking comfort, woe to me of little faith.