Days and Works of Hands Tongues Hips

The city creaks open on Friday morning.
Make ready.
In seven languages read with seven eyes set in a head of solid rock I read the cuneiform morning, I read the dregs of beers swilled late dried like tea leaves on my tongue, I gutter and mumble new prayers.
I shower.
Friday morning will become Friday night. Friday night will make way for other days more hotly anticipated when my fingertips will tell better prayers we would murder to remember forever, to keep time from stealing us from where we are dug in, to stay in those places where we exercise the luxury of silence in rooms stockpiled with words.