Monday’s heaving footballs
force the path to deepen as it narrows,
the air a heavy burden,
carrying yesterday’s disappointments
as though they were more precious
than the fool’s gold of sentiment
we use to barter with the gods.
We are legion in our confusion,
voicing theories and forming prayers
into mournful shapes on the tongue,
rolled between hands otherwise useless
but decorative as they flick the light
around us up and away.