Matty Matte Modge Podge

We’ve tempted Sundays, pursing our lips at quick Mimicked flickers of light that sprinkle in the mid day. Our eyes heavier this day, off from weekday bluest hue Upon the morning wave, curled inward towards land Highways that bisect and recede behind us, care is taken To remember their traced eye lid pins, that grip steel To concrete and our rubber tires to the road. In heaven, perhaps this road, blazed in sun’s fingers Inching us closer towards towns we’ve seldom Realized existed, insisted, their internal hum be Fed towards our beating hearts, just far enough Away, not to be heard by one another. A Sunday Kind of love, turns the record round the dash, Scanning for stations filled with static just to Piss you off. I hear motion under finger nail Scrapes that release skin, like my heart might If beaten much faster. “Perchance” cries forth Lips quiver, return to purse, now at the gulls, they Circle, swoop and otherwise moan “Sunday” in their Way. Tonight, not a week-e

I’d been circling round this merry-go Skipping stones like only heaven knows Missing central items to the these shelves I stock Like laundry coming back with one less sock So I’ve traveled roads both fast and slow Waiting on the sunshine to fill up my soul This port’s left vacant with an empty dock Then along you come like my missing left sock I’ve wrestled with words just to let you know That my frozen feet and frozen toes Were bruised and battered running round the block Then out of nowhere here’s my missing left sock Curtains hang from an open window and the wind drifts in, only slightly though it breezes by the hands of this ticking clock you’ve returned for good my missing left sock My soul hinges on to the side of a cliff humming words that I know with a familiar riff Loosening up the grips that once held stiff Screaming straight to the wind leaving my words adrift That You blanketed me when my oceans swell rose Dredging in my heart for some signs of gold Against a Bering sea sw