SUNDAY Poem by Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer

give me any poet today
who either doesn't start with give me
or draws circles concentrically about him
touching on tangents of reformed
arrhythmic solemn silence

let me lounge late under my woolly snoozing duvet
bed of snoring words beside woolly words
and do not serve me up imperatives
when late in the afternoon you kiss me awake
at the crack of television
no semblance of demand
but a freshly baked scented saying
or a lyric on litmanen

and but because yesterday was brisker
wingy-wobbly shopping trolley wheels were
yesterday you still said then awake as a wake-up quiz
it windy-wobblewaves with a whizz

but you must
you must take it easier on me today
don't force morning stroll on me either
past bluegrass roadside picnics or to see
young lettuce still tender in moist little beds

slurp tastily on man
suck softly concentrically
circling touch on straight senses
of the man of cockayne