Sunday is the colour Of black and white TV No signal anymore Just the radiance Gnawing in your ears We still wear Last night’s epitaph In a too bright fervour Of distorted red and green A magnet to the cathode ray As if the laughable geometry Of neat lawns and backyard swimming pools Were the height where with A half-humbled prayer You could, (only sinking slightly through the screen) On that pocked and pristine surface, So easily walk