Mard you are the saint of 2:54 p.m.
on any Tuesday
Wednesday or Thursday. We feel good in leaves.
In being left behind to bear other
centuries. In the middle of my arm
there is a window where I can
see you ingesting your biosphere. There is no
pollution. No other self but right now.
The mediocrity of employment delivers its
packages outside the blinds.
I believed you when you said,
"Nothing done is nothing done."