What some call forever
I call Sunday afternoon
Two-thirty exactly
When the sun is still high
And there is no thought of night—
No thought even of the sapphire
Brightness of early dusk
That yields too soon to endless,
Silent pitch punctuated
By indifferent stars
And an overripe moon—
No thoughts of any of that
At that never ending moment
I call two-thirty, Sunday,
When nobody is hungry or tired
Or angry or sad or frightened
About anything.
It is all good.

I call it forever.
I dream Sunday
Into Monday
And beyond.

The dream is never-ending;
Too often I dream it alone.

One Single Impression