Sundays I spend feeling sorry for myself I’ve got a
knack for it I’m morbid, make the worst of any season
exclamation point yet levity’s a liquor of sorts,
lowers us through life toward the terminus soon
extinguished darling, the comfort is slight,
tucked in bed we search each other for some alternative—
oh let’s marvel at the world, the stroke and colors of it
now, while breathing.
From Skeletons by Deborah Landau. Copyright © 2023 by Deborah Landau. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC, on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.