I count my weeks by Wednesdays
Which come slow:
You incomprehensibly kind,
Asking questions which you should not.
I think therefore—
Because of the shoes you wear,
And I can say like a pre-Socratic:
The first element is the circle.
A rock, a stone, says nothing.
Colors are ludicrous,
And I must buy coffee now,
This being Tuesday at 4 a.m.
I would tremble then interrogate,
For I am in eighth grade again.
A bastard sun rises, mocking me,
A nothing sun saying:
“Adonis, poor Adonis.
Adonis of the angels.”