Dishcloth days

Tucked into my apron in the thunder
the quiet is being difficult
stringy and impossible to kiss

kiss like the spring
still winter though
I could table the sky with all its right angles and
severe lack of ancient history

bout to start on a batch of baking
to hold back the dark
I’m sleeping through these
dishcloth days

simply to condense things into
millions and thousands and castle fulls of
sweet droplets
bitter though
as though substituting
inadequately for
that other summer tide