Even Now

1

It can rain and it can blow,

but the magpie still speaks on Sunday,

the day of dogs and the blind.

Oh, Sun-sham-day.

To the wooden priest in his box

I whisper, For me, defused, deactivated,

deadened, despairing,

this day is no valid reason.

4

Beside the water where the grass grows

like the hair of dead women

the girls lie on Friday nights,

surprising passers-by with a glimpse

of thighs in stockings with a sailor

in between.

Unshakeable confidence

steals up on you then, oh, Freya-day stroller,

you wide-branching bridegroom.