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

I.