There is no joy in this rustic meditation

   upon the dried foliage.

Sunday’s foreplay with absence

       Of an act.

Your Gothic mood in city’s mirror

Spells a medieval urgency,

  To escape from sedentary lull

that crown the Sunday’s

Staid croon.

 

Here and there naked steps of adolescence 

Borrow sun’s heat

   reproduce it in

flesh’s proposition.

I am undone by the dogged ring of desire’s no end,

chase it with a blind innocence;

 of its insufferable recant.

Which on Sunday’s, naked hunger for a feast

 Seems innocuous.

 

I warm scant pieces of bronze in my pocket,

  to offer your blurred image in the distance.

As walking scents of affluence

Tell tale of town’s vain heritage.

I relieve Sunday of its settled routine

By a retiring ritual of cafe chairs lugged in

  Under evening’s closing grace.

As the sun falls, sinking,

the evening bids farewell.