when the six o'clock sun hits the pantry wall
is it too late then, to undo the day?
or do I have until the moon hangs
above the tree line
to say that i wish i had not?
words, words
mine are said. yours expired on the wall.
and now the sword of sunlight
stabs the countertops
six o' clock
and glowing, sinking
nightfall, moon beams
i see that we have not mended, and will not.
and i wander around my apology-
hanging heavy
in dew drops stepping
through the grassy yard
sorry, sorry
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