October Week

Sunday

This mess is Sunday,
between windows that move and creak
when the wind blows filled with leaves.
Tell me if it doesn't make you feel bitter,
I mean furiously defeated
because everything's missing, because nothing,
because we'll never know, never really know.

And Monday is beyond, hours and hours.

Monday

Monday can be seen from a distance.
It brings moments of dust,
of things with no remedy,
the insufferable arrogance
of being a day on which all things seem to begin.

This is where we are now.

Tuesday

All day long will be Tuesday,
an extension of water
without light between avid fingers.
And the afternoon will pass, leaving
the fragrance of plums, the touch
of some eyes, the cruel flower
of words, the fly
of memory.

Wednesday

All touch is ephemeral
due to the virtue of Wednesday:
there's no music
it doesn't rain
there's no air above the open city
the world rests
and eyes meet
—a sweet, sweet embrace covered with scars.

Thursday

You always say it was Thursday, and hours remain free in the innocence, butterflies hanging
from the easy sky of October.
On other days the inevitable
is true. Not on Thursdays.

Saturday

And if one day I look for you
and no longer find the names
of the streets in their place,
or the summer light, or your shadow
beneath the rusted iron of the fog,

no doubt it will be Saturday.