it’s sunday

so the girl in the yellow hat

will be singing by the pond.

we walk in circles at daybreak,

talking of the hymns

that dared to destroy us.

he tried to tell me of the trees,

with their beading lies

and bleeding faults.

(i never listened.)

he asked me if i would answer,

so i bit him on the cheek.

tell me what passion is, i screamed,

tell me where it went.

tell me of the little boy with the jumprope

and how it licked his pallid neck

until it turned blue.

you blamed the valleys on your misery

and the mountains on her smile,

but what about the mess in the bedroom

and dreams that created it?