It Is Monday And The Dead Are Still Asleep

it is Monday and the dead are still asleep.

no curfew for the statuette 

on laundered linen raised as curtains child.

four-sticks of man, one push

it is old enough to snow here

this valley of the string where stains survive.

the fat talk from the mouth's that pick and grind

behind the ears. all bowels are empty still.

the mince of words that bounce across the chest

a season of tomorrow's statin 

crawling through a slipknot on a not so gentle rung.