Friday, March 28, 2014

ANOINTED

Nothing— 
you could list
is just

what it is—

least of all this 
slippery grey and 
gloomy thing 

pronounced—morning 
in spring;

look hard—and there's 
always 
these small kisses

of sun-
light slipping 

around inside 
each big fat new drop
of dull
rain on your windshield;

or merely—begin
to feel around 

for the faint 
oily 
residue—of old Chopin 

that's slow-
ly
but

surely—
lubricating your traffic jam.

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