Mark your calendars

Mark your calendars

Come gravediggers! Find us something beautiful to mark out and call at morning that this is a yawp, that this is a naming.
Come profiles, sat straining at monitors, do dirt to the dark, mark your calendars in all the wrong ways.
Send your washing to Prague in first class and then arrive like a crumpled apology waving a dog eared
Collins dictionary, and T-shirt expression normality. Some fixed screen has seen a slicker of your face
as you made beautiful vilifying extraordinary love
to your day.
Surely, you should say, that makes the way you put the rubbish out, seem less angry
that somehow
sense has a pretty massive responsibility to show up and put things straight, if only it knew its way
to your house. Come now bed slats, break like babies, root our feet down into clod land,
let’s feel the ripeness of dates,
the brewing of typists when they wrist rest and take cake leave. Those pillows hold heads,
mind, they are pregnant with dust mites dreaming of clock hands and greasy glass slowly slipping. Make your peace
because there’s space between the trees, waiting for another string of paper doll figurines
and some gravediggers
who wont look up at morning, even if a yawp issues out from the box, someone will just think the morning said co-op.