sunday, may fourth, two-thousand eight

were you called a
plant on the window
sill, still echoes "self",
grinned a little and laid
across the foliage. Tell
my Sunday, I will return
soon, with burn marks criss-
crossing my back

were you brought, some
laughter in the next
room over was quick to fall
into your hands,
wearing scars into
your palm. Monday, now,
not as easily questioning
the alchemist's plan?     Was
a dedication, short six
bars of gold, time to take a
vacation

had any light
so planned to come through your
window, to present itself
in kaleidescopes? You called it
"illusory," I thought to
replace some
sense of
safety.