The Errand for Infinite Saturday
On Infinite Saturday, there’s no bad dancing
because there’s no such thing.
They’re playing your favorite song,
after your favorite song, and all the space
is space to move within, as there is
nowhere that needs moving from.
And the flowers are aptly named—
they really do flow.
Like limegreen rabbits checking pocketwatches
for the proper time, they bloom on cue
and shower you with a view for
their remaining hours. Their twilight show
flooding the gardens; the fields;
the sides of roadways with little suns.
But you’ve never seen daffodils
glowing in the ochre light as reliably
nor as casually as those on dancefloors
on Infinite Saturday.
When my hand presses into yours,
I think of falling into pillows.
The soft bends of light hinting
at the hearth beneath
your skin. It feels like the sky
is right there. Like if you stood
to your impatient toes– you can
grab a cloud by the collar.
Your tulips can be broken lightbulbs
or beating hearts. So, too, can clouds
be what you want. In haze,
a fuzzy bunny— in definition,
a proud hippo. In joy,
a fortunate day— still, it’s hard
to name clouds
in a field of gray.
It feels like everything is bleeding
and then there’s the human shape.
The crystal fire in every unassuming skin;
the boundaries of it, pronouncing itself
despite erupting inside, day after day,
like fission-powered lightposts
along the dismal sky.
And so, on Infinite Saturday,
nail a single thesis into
the center of my oak chest;
a still errand to pin me
to the endless day:
Ring the bell of belonging
into every bottomless pit— long
and loud and large and true—
fill every empty infinity
with the song of all songs;
the song that starts
with the resolute