Monday

Crumpled like a moth on a pane of glass,
Pressing and fluttering against the void:
I sit out the week like a soldier
And time flows anxious through my hands
And against that glass where I press my forehead.

My breath fogs, coiling up in ghost-white
Summer gone, leaves changing (it whispers, like you are)
And land-death is never far
From the mind within that forehead
Pressed against that glass. 

Rackety transit now, shaking apart
Pounding my forehead on the pane— I know,
Lights are dimmer now
Nights are colder

© Krysta Jean Brennan