Another Day

Another Day

weaves to a close slowly
like a grain of rice sinking
through honey.

Coffins on my eyelids
urge them down.
I have no strength left
to flick them off or moan for
the drone of the gaunt priest

I have no need to account to him
the discarded seconds, the minutes
relinquished, the hours dismissed
but I must try
to prise away these teak worlds
before he arrives unasked,
laden with centuries of resonant syllables.

The day was born,
like most of my previous days,
without golden-hued promises,
unannounced by hungry crows
or the tinkle of bullocks
shaking their beads;
the day has not vowed, though,
to grow wrinkled and pale,
like the skin of lemons left
out in the sun.

Perhaps I had woken too late
to see the first fingers of dawn
erase the night's foibles
and hence am doomed
to the specious rantings of priests
or the fresh emptiness of coffins.

The day has d shot past me
although it had the small
feet of torroises and did not
taunt m eor draw attention
to my long legs.