Grey Does Matter

There is nothing rote
or banging
about this poetry on unofficial winter
but the skeptical clarity
of memory—
a slippery escarpment
of tidbits [surrounded by loud water,
maybe shale] welling up a
gainst the grey light
under the skull:

leaves failing
buildings falling
[even the honeymoon hotel imploded] toothy women
a flying man [not burning] blood aching out
disappearing

here and there.

Somewhere
it is falling snow
a typhoon
a rainbow smear
a clap
the weather channel tells me
[about fog] more than I need
to know but can’t help
tuning in.