Pursed Lips
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...