Dear Weekdays,

How you’re the bee in my mouth who stings my uvula. 
How you fit so many ghost seconds between seconds. 
How the hands of your clock tighten like Tua’s fingers 
in concussion. How tarantulas can live for 2 years 
on dust alone. How your windows are spiderwebs of silt.

How you cure the headache with a tack in the shoe. 
How everything will be better once you’re through, 
but you’re never through, you’re always beyond 
that bend in the weekend, that run in Sunday’s stocking. 
How you don’t read for pleasure.  How there’s an imperfection 

in your perfect binding, and it may be me, my thoughts, 
my position in the boat that’s throwing off our balance. 
How you’re the secondary stability of which I’m unwilling. 
How you’re ordered automatically and billed intravenously. 
How on returns, there’s no free shipping. How I spend 

the most minutes awake in you and all I want to do 
is sleep in you, and keep that sleep in a glass box 
like one of Mao’s mangoes. How you have no retirement plan. 
How we highlight you to death in yellows, oranges and greens. 
How through all this neon marking and obnoxious annotation 

you plan trips to Kuala Lumpur with your sister. How you have no sister, 
unless she’s the one rising from the milky waters of the earth’s core. 
How your options are only one: wide awake without eyes or even a brain. 
How James Tate says, he is not just a bunch of white stuff inside his skull. 
How it’s very likely you’re just a bunch of white stuff inside my skull.