CONOR O'CALLAGHAN
“Midweek”

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Take it for what it is:
a chance to lie low
outside the weekend’s brackets,
to mark off time in minutes,
peat briquettes,
the cluster of units
a cursor eats up.
The sameness of distant bells
and a digital clock’s ellipsis
and cars parked in a row
and the alarm waiting to trip
remains as good as intact—
apart from a dash to the line and back,
the night sky something else.