"On the Balcony," by D.H. Lawrence

"Twenty Years Hence," by Walter Savage Landor

"Mist, Earthquake, Grace," by Hans Ostrom

"To Helen," by Edgar Allan Poe

"Friendco," by Hans Ostrom

One From Maya Angelou, R.I.P.

"A Girl," by Michael Field

"How Many Times Do I Love Thee?" by Thomas Lovell Beddoes

"God Scatters Beauty," by Walter Savage Landor

"Fragmentary Blue," by Robert Frost

"Why?" by Walter de la Mare

"Irony," by Amy Lowell

"Weak Days," by Hans Ostrom

Sunday was a damned done-day,
if you ask me, and you didn't.
Monday was a numb-day.
Wednesday? What a clot
of consonants. That mid-
dumb-day did not
find me inconsolable.
But still. Thursday,
a blur's day. Tues,
the Blues, an out-of-
order cruise. Fly-Day
night, I saw old pals
getting buzzed and sat
there in a corner like
a spider that's lost
its appetite. Saturday
always seems to want
to perform like
an Ur-Day. Academics
used to like to add
Ur to words. They're
always doing shit like that.
Also,there's always a missing
day in every week. It's that
one on which we do
exactly what we're
supposed to do.