Some days
Sundays mostly
I feel separate from time
A cold leg
A sun-warm shoulder
Roadkill on the passing lane
Quiet
Empty streets
The smell of dust and sunshine
And thoughts of nothing
Not empty
Not full
A bleach-white church
Against a February-blue sky
Evergreens
And dead oaks
Tangling ***** and muddy
How can those boards
Look so clean?