08/23

infinite weekend

my dad says, "no one wants to work anymore."
he's angry at the factory. his face callouses over.
i knit a scarf from threads of ivy.
sleep fifteen minutes later than i wanted
& feel guilty for making the morning so green.
walk barefoot to a sister galaxy 
to ask the animals how they earn their bodies.
on one star animals sleep until they're struck
with inspiration. then, manically, they create 
until they are dust. on another they stroke plants
like pet dogs. kiss until night comes & then
in the dark kissing means something more perminant.
i tell you i want an infinite weekend 
by which i mean i think, if i close my eyes hard enough,
we could be monsters. could wander away from town
& sleep inside firefly ridden barns. 
make a fire & ask it questions. become experts
at divination. what will come next is already
in our blood. i had a dream last night i was shopping
for a temple. i wanted something made 
of moonstone or glass. it arrived in a box
as big as any year. we unpacked it together
& took turns running a finger along the surface.
a help wanted sign asks if i am happy. i tell the sign
no one is happy because happy is like a needed 
gust of air not a pair of socks. 
hurricane came & left. handfuls of leaves.
fallen branch. the trees taking their vacations
& leaving nothing. not a root not a stump.
come back, i say, we need your bones. 
i see the infinite weekend. the one i was talking about.
a door within a door within a door. 
we float on egg whites. we eat with our hands.
the sky is pink & sweet. 

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