sunday's prone & dreaming body

out the windows peeked 
the next intersection's stop-
lights repeat red, repeat red

hinted hills 
i do not see
tinted tree 
weeping its gold 
into the gutter 
reluctantly undressed its 
spindly limbs pinning 
the sky's cushion 
its gold streaming
and i am full 
of grief

outside, an invisible broom sweeps the moist parking lot 
so quiet and desolate, i wonder if the city has been evacuated 
and no one told me. outside the scatter is increased but 
in here i am lonely and flailing, diving lens long into petal 
and leaf, bark and blade. 

drowsily stepping into the coolest hue 
you could not ever possibly describe 
succumbing lately to 
the late night under pull 
hissing neon, target of the accused 
i told you
do not sing to me of spring 
in the midst of all this leaf fall 
entering the tunnel, knowing it's a long ride 
as layer after layer of mist is pulled from 
sunday's prone and dreaming body. 

accept what is, 
as if you could. 

the day is short armed 
and living too long a route to run 
for the promise of a vicious hit 

wearing a chain of dependent 
clauses around your breath 
that a piano's tinkling couldn't possibly 
solve anything and yet tries to anyway. 

strolling past your unmade mind 
you, habit's prisoner, want to 
crawl back into its bed 

as if you knew all along 
where you were going, 
as you tucked yourself 
back into your trap 

as if you knew, 
as if you knew...