This Sunday morning trembles
In silence and languor
A cluster of ants on spilled honey
This Sunday morning wakes up slowly
Utensils don’t clang
Vehicles don’t bustle
Only the birds chirp
Calendarless and happy.
I wake up to steal the calm
With gentle footsteps
I have the morning all for myself
Without the mundane monotony.
I have all the time for Neruda
And the confetti of dreams
I let fly yesterday afternoon
I recline and relapse comfortably
I watch the ants run nimbly
I read somebody’s extrapolations
As a dull enchantment ensnares me
I chuckle to myself and push it off lazily
Adverbs all over the place
Dripping like wet clothes
I dream of my sleeping lover
And his lashes fluttering quietly.