Sunday at five o'clock

this here
expectation perched as a wren upon spring
stilled story written between the spaces of a day

this here
fingers tremble on words dashed
and
floating past as skiffs of sun

will I be happy when it's done?
will I be content with the measure & mirth
of this here

whiteness tempts with its swallows of time
sucking every numbed & nuanced line
of this here

will I respect the pause, the rhyme?

no

this here is bleeding out in vapid technicolor
its emptiness
metapoem
mettapoem

this here
is nothing or all
black is black upon this white page
beckoning with impossible lips of the wren's song

Spring's call