The clouds are breaking apart,
the sun slips through,
the floor needs sweeping.
Madame Bovary signals from across the street.
It’s like a midnight movie at
flicker of wings maybe
seashells & cigarettes,
eye shadow & motor oil. A pair of
rose-colored goggles for the night crew.
I am assuming a monastic recalcitrance
falling like an ornamental plum tree
when no one’s looking
which is why I am telling you about it
the x-factor like funk & circumstance
gathering up all your dark veins