Sensory organs promote time by decaying.
And when Sunday happens
And everyone is draping clean linen
Across clotheslines in their very American backyards,
I trespass; wrap their garments around my erected index
Then unravel the bleached cotton and display my stoic finger
Inside a Sunday breeze-
Like a sea captain wetting his finger
And holding it topside
To determine the wind’s direction. I want to understand
Where my sensory organs go
When I am not there.