Sundays keep staring at me

Like I imagine the Death comes with her instruments

The sun is still out

Fall is in full display, the windows open themselves

But Sunday is here 

It has been calling me away from joy since a time I can’t remember

I only know that Sunday is carrying on because no one else can fill it

The heart, the hole in it and the thoughts from it

Navigating, interlocking.

I close this poem to go to bed

Monday is a series of dreams away.