On Sunday afternoons,
there is nothing subtle about being in love
The nuance slips away with the remainders of my acute failings
On a day, too slow to escape awareness
The exploits, and bits of glory,
Are left but for all to see—
the clayed grief, the empty fall, the sideway stares
On Sunday afternoons,
When the sun burns the sky early,
and lets go of itself with the crimson of a hesitant dusk
When I could not hear the dogs barking,
neighbors shushing their toddlers,
or lovers sighing a mile about
That is when there is no subtlety left to love, art, or heartbreak