Wednesday, November 6, 2013


Up and down the rainy
busy highway, all the hardest-

working colors—the kelly 
green of sheetmetal 

signs, the pale man-made 
grey of roadways and skinny hyper-

reality yellow of thin lines—stand cross 
and stiff—foregrounded 

and jealous—

of the drooping mangy auburn
that slopes to grace those 

loose tresses of trees—and the quick 
shocks of ad hoc persimmon 

that hug scads of shrubs swaying 
listlessly off in the foggy 

and trivially 
pretty periphery.

Why is it?—they grouse,
that some streaks of light 

are damned to be so

seen all the time?

While others just get—to hang back
and shoot, pretty vaguely

for some truly amazing—
incidental scenery?