lean

a great
many Sundays of which
the hazy sunshine i
hated gratis,
for oblivion has always been
cruelly denied.
a score of sordid details
-rolling inked tongues-
left an indelible impression on me,
chiming in
with a twinge of
dictated fear or is it
of conscience?
between these Sundays
love remains
a chimera
applied on the beloved
ones.