shy and far-feeling
circle of sun—there
are days
when you strike one
as little
more than just
painted-on—
seeming to
while so
abstrusely away
on this
two dimensional drop-
ceiling of heaven
with no real
immediate
pull of your own—
your mauve-
colored morning
light clapped
dimly up in thick
clots of grey
pigments—in fact
it's like
you're only
last-minute—pinned up
or plastered
to the set—simply
for the sake
of day-
to-day
continuity.
