wearing wednesday

there were two quills left when i sat down under my own bodhisattva's vow: no cessation of writing until the dream was understood

~

the first dips were cool lightly scented lavender;
the words a horizontal waterfall that flowed down the page in accordance with a secret linguistic direction my brain had secured with the Muse before she went for tea or something stronger

then ochres and jasmines and deep blues and black scratches
as I engraved the night's sire to paper:

a golden curtain, pulled up and out left and right,
caught for a moment on edges of the giant calendar center stage

Crowded House played over the theatre's PA as I was shot supine into a gridded day, popped like a blister pack into the heart of the calendar

moments were clocks there,
stacking themselves into little people,
dragging one or many seasons to the day's border,
peeking up and looking at Tuesday on one side and Thursday on the other and Saturday Sunday below and Monday and Friday above

~

there was one quill left now, it's cuticle quickly worn through the manic scribing

I pulled Wednesday from the dream and wore it like a yoke,
felt its heft and symmetry while the clockers teeter tottered from side to side off of its perfect apex, touching Tuesday and Thursday on either side on every second descent

the quill knew my version of the boddhisatva's vow was complete before I did;
it splintered and tapped out just before the end of the page, leaving enough room for This:

sometimes the understanding is that there *is* no understanding
just time and weather and Wednesdays
playing in the preverbal playground
as the Muse and grace allows