our country is a blemish on the map.
they sleep on Sundays
& we picnic in Geminis

& the broken waves on your forehead
& every highway is a throne
a kingdom an ocean of grass

a mariners windward weavings
charted, plotted, coffee stained
they sleep on Sundays

our pure heart is a cub scout’s
first reef knot or some mountain streams
forgotten drunken stumblings

one day the paint will peel from the walls
of a room where I used to live