The Day After
Twenty four hours
divided
into minutes, seconds (even smaller)
moments
but, looking back,
only by story, metaphor, simile
can I Feel-that-Day again
like the sunshine of an orange skin,
(or the journey of a train with volcano cans of beer)
the flesh soft and tangy, juicy as a sponged
ripping ocean sapand a dream somewhere in between the story of a day;
the sense and the non-sense
warped by brainbox,
itself soft as ripe red melon
fragmented in memory at the end of the day
:pages, physics, juice, included.
