Wednesday is quiet as a blurry photo.
I gather up armfuls of soiled bedclothes.
How many bedsheets dumped in the water
Does the harbor have room for?
Morning and evening greet each other
like blind men; they shake hands
uncertainly, and light passes through their palms.
I am limping through Wednesday,
the lame knee of the week:
a hunter without a map,
a singer without a mouth.