i do not understand the day,
how it works, sunlight soaking,
burning skin over deep blue
veins, turning pliable heaps of
life and relaxed living into
tense, worn-down, dried-out
vessels of worry and despise,
which in the night were once so
tender, loving souls that held close
the starts, little kisses in the sky the moon left
when it finally fell asleep, was reborn, renewed,
a new moon, a child on the wings of
some celestial bird, cast his lips upon the cheek of night,
viscous, brimming night, healing wounds while
morning wounds healers.
i do not understand the day.