Streaked by January sun
in the wide shot of
a skyless blue
that stiff caucus
of bald trees
is demanding
company. It's titanic
to hear the measure
of far sirens, or pass
that short lusty
fence, or view the crisp
right angles
of high-definition
buildings with windows
lacquered
in light, and not
to think—
like Deadalus—of what
thought
first dreamt them up.
But the truth
is there's no future
in weather
or adjectives; there's
no winter in these
fractals and
no past in Greece
or January. There's
no intention
and no artifice
and nothing to append to trees
but vogue ultimatums: Tomorrow,
I'll stop writing
rectangles where there are none
and I'll start
praying to myself instead
in the boundless
company of no good
words, because this is
a mad crowd
and aimless—
and I could never draw it if
I wanted to.