Welcome To The Working Week, overdue revision.
Welcome To The Working Week
is stuffed, / de world, wif feeding girls
A country or two full of girls, but what world
is full black-and-white? Back to back to that
past excitement, they are not made of gloss
paper and billboards and boredom, not all.
Not entirely, I mean. Simplest beauty, less
daisy than Leucanthemum vulgare, see oxeye,
a kind of beauty prefers damp landfill and
the constant company of others. Tuesday
see one, by Friday the world brims to full.
Any one you please, ask the nature of love,
the French call it effeuiller la marguerite.
We have named it as well, though plainer.
We have loved as well, methodically, a jerk
rhythm, scuffed oxfords on college sidewalks:
You see them and sneer, their slight frames
and large bags, always their perfect hair.
Take what you will from this mess of mass
distraction, you meet them with security
so tucked severely away it is unable to find
when you need it. Hunger eats at you, keeps
you hungry. Lash your scraps of self together,
a kind of turmoil machine, frustration factory
to forge a life or so out of unrest. Go to work.
Fix a dinner. Take the trash. Soon create them
as you have always yourself: in your own image.
A singular satisfaction, bringing the outside in,
a small bit of human nature in your living room,
a face round as a girl’s, a vase like cerements.
