Sunday Afternoons – A Poem

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

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