The Day After

Twenty four hours

divided

into minutes, seconds (even smaller)

moments

but, looking back,
only by story, metaphor, simile

can I Feel-that-Day again

like the sunshine of an orange skin,

(or the journey of a train with volcano cans of beer)

the flesh soft and tangy, juicy as a sponge

dripping ocean sap

and a dream somewhere in between the story of a day;

the sense and the non-sense

warped by brainbox,

itself soft as ripe red melon

fragmented in memory at the end of the day:

pages, physics, juice, included.