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Sunday

 

moving quietly
so’s not to wake the thunder
(the tree in the yard tossing and turning
the coffee boiling over,
even that quietly
more quiet than usual).

The first sips as
the rain’s beginning
thunders now and
you shift in your bed.

Storms are welcome,
they wash away the question:
What will we do with our day?

What did you do with your day?

There are clicks in your flat
that nothing owns up to.
There are drips in a metal cup.

You, who slept through it all,
will want to go out.