And more and more and more.

It has been a week.

It has been neither

little scuffles in the corner,

Doodling petty, here and there

Of dearth minutely felt, under-skin only

It has been a week of pettiness,

Of giving your name to the pushing of the bed

Or getting the last speck,

It has been a week, barely.

Of bird-warble fault-finding,

Pecking incessantly at window putty or varnished door,

Open and close throughout the day,

Yes, it has been a week of woodpecker.

Seven days, six pills gone.

And here the time begins,

It has been a week of more and less.

A week of telling time in your gait,

And the side of the bed that speaks better.

From curtains to switchboards,

This is not distance.

But it surely has been a week, almost exact

But for a little spillage

It has been a week of blindness,

To your pond flutter and nest-building,

To stick-breaking and ravage,

“Go through, go through, go out”

Rising death counts and curves, endless.

Before and after this aspect of a thunderstorm-

It has been neither,

In anger, I painted

stick armed kid, dead in ditch, with dog hair in its mouth.