Frothy Paradise

Like soap-opera deaths, these days are not
believable, but make a week, a summer,
a few years, caught in the only plot,
quickly, muted now, repeating.
Every rough stone is smoothed, every push
of this warm river slower, colder.
This has become obvious.
What is not obvious is daytime itself
appearing in a pointed silence
like a dead relative in a good dream.
The closer that face comes
the quicker the day goes,
the louder the silence asks you to stay.
To say.
Something tells me this is my afternoon.
Something tells me this is my afternoon,
and it comes to me, like blood
from a deep cut, escaping steadily,
no matter what pressure is applied.