It’s always Friday now.

by George Quasha

Radically desiring the two sides flipped.
Who’s that sound like groundwork speaking up that I hear it even now.

The ground discipline is keeping myself in the dark the better to not misthink.
The creatureliness of my human is caught eating through rooted linguality.

In the other senses it’s all flag-waving distraction more mumble than rubble.
The earth keeps breaking out of the frame we name it into.

Brain filters, science believes what it sees, moving body thinks on.
The salamander gets its foot in the poet’s mouth.

There are no natural symbols but believing one thinks for itself.
Science is locating my brain site of nature thinking for me.