The week would gather Sunday to free itself.
Each day had a gathering task
one would bring a poem
another choose a location and notify the others
someplace they hadn’t been
until they’d been everywhere.
A picnic, a party, a wake
a huddle, a cluster, an autopsy;
the days seldom agreed or needed to
though gathering was something like agreement.
There was no agenda. The Polish Parliament
was less fractious. The dawn came on
in forty shades of orange, the trees edged away
the grass withdrew into its ground
to demonstrate reversal’s symmetry.
Sometimes there was only music;
it needed no undoing.
Never more than a trio but often less
the others listened or seemed to
having nothing more to say.
Less was more, then less, then less than less.
A passage incomplete in its completion
marginal, needing other’s silence
to compose its own. Three pounds of burlap
to make a Buddha of. The heaviness of days
lightened in new-found patience,
a kindness undiscovered in passage
walking waves, sea-bottoms in unsuspected liberty.