Thursday, August 21, 2014

RINSE CYCLES

Inside a recondite 
quiet—but still

reverberating
eye 

Lucy and I
go—midmorning

gliding—darkwet by so many 
mildly 

agitated spinning vortices

silent—behind their streaky 
and soap-
stained shop windows—

that my mind
can't help circling

back—and 
back 
and back yet again quietly—and each 

time with less
and a more-

diffuse sense 
of astringency—to how 

there's really 
no such 
thing as—a break in the weather.

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