Almost the light of a dawn
after the Sunday,
I try to fill the time
with words
that have no
volume.

The easiest of tasks,
the hardest of tasks:
there's so much that can be said,
there's just so much that can be said.

The walls turn to grey
an there's this oily thickness in the air,
drifting in search
of a window,
of opportunity.

The words are still
massless
and I still have time
left:
for now
this will have
to do.