St. Mard

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."