By PA

A single open window

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Allowing a single ray of the Sunday sun

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To prickle my mosquito bitten thighs.

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The only light that brightens my mind

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In an otherwise musky and wet place,

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Things and thoughts slipping down wet rocks,

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Hidden in craggs,

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But this Sunday sun,

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On an otherwise lonely day,

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Hides the self-loathing of today’s afternoon.

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And even to the Apennines does this sullen place follow,

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A merenda and thoughts about the life

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I could’ve led. But this Sunday sun accepts the chipped nail polish on my toes,

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And the marks left on my leg after a succumbing scratch.

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In this short afternoon it is fascinating, not brutto.

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The mosquito bite bleeds,

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Blood spreads across my glistening ankle and scabs over,

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Thats what my Sunday sun does for me,

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It heals me before a haemorrhage,

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It is a cycle of Sunday suns that saves me.