Quiet Sunday (a poem)

Quiet Sunday

Two hundred and seventy

days later,

my lips won’t disclose

the ulcer.

White diamonds through the trees

in my backyard.

Radio is switched to on.

Three-ring circus—

I’m lost listening to what you

don’t hear on the first pass.

Caught between the pages

underneath my desk,

there is concrete from an old patio.

Flies make hearts,

wind makes rain,

scratches on my lenses

make everything seem unparallel.

I try to detox myself

from all white foods.