Early

Early

Early
aught: fifty-three
Love
An unday diary
All the world’s words have lost my mind

A year/and a half of undays
had passed, it would seem.
An unday is an unending day.
An unday doesn’t count
hours
and in it hours don’t count.
A year/and a half of undays then;
in it but that: a year/and a half.
An unday tips its hat
»Unday/and a half,,
»charmed, I’m sure.«
And then
»Where to?«
»Home. It would seem.«
An unday is always at home
somewhere
and en route elsewhere,
in between you and I
over you, over I
(always en route)
unto self, you and I. Each day
an unday takes everyday
»Where to?«
»Today. It would seem.«
An unday is a done day,
a day, done away with,
for a year/and a half.

AuthorJure Novak
2018-08-21T17:23:12+00:00 November 27th, 2006|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 51|0 Comments