Mother Luck
Be kind.
This year is sticky and sweet.
My weeks are rotting out.
In the canals the water fishes for teeth.
Tuesday is bare backed, draped
over a settee –
too generous with its mornings.
My yellow, savory evenings are limpid with trust.
To die like the day does –
More and more color then stardust….
My body grinding its gears
like a Wednesday jealous of Friday.
Miniature Moon 