Sunday Song
There are no verbs on Sundays,
But things do happen
Melting, for instance,
Slow or fast, it all depends on the seasons.
When it is not Sunday I eat
Other things and ice cream too,
The week happens so fast
There is no time for melting,
No licking just swallowing,
No bench in the park
But a shivering, transitive, sidewalk.
Even if the flavor is of bright pink strawberry
The color is not even bitter it’s imprecise.
It is precisely the lack of precision that bothers me
On Sundays, I take the matter of justice in my hands, I
Cut the day, sharp, with neat borders, I
Draw, strict lines, with my black, fine, point,
Everywhere
There is
A surface
Where one
Can intervene.
One can fold the edges of anything into some thin-
g else, prettier and softer in its definition,
Kind, slow, sweet.
And the total sum of the many-folded object
Is an ongoing aria,
–For which the word in Greek is the synonym of law,
But there are no laws on Sundays–
I sing, only
I sing.
To sing is not a verb but an adjective of voice
Or it is movement contained in a noun:
Breath?
I like only reality and so I only like
This day of preparations,
Preparation takes time to enter into time,
It remains aloof from motion and sequences and goodbyes.
On Sundays I know just to say a fair “hi”
With a strange punctuation, rather vertical and not final