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.