Sundays are still Sundays,
no matter the season or elevation.
But under my thick sweater and cotton inlays
I smell like the beach, in a stormy station.
As I walk my legs to an aimless fatigue
Work my brain to its immaterial bone
For the vertical lines of sails, oblique
My festering angst cannot atone.
The splendor I glued to for the hour,
will exist indefinitely, away from my eyes.
I will continue to walk and talk, scour and devour
to carry it past the instant, lest it tomorrow dies.