when it's
not even gray out
but blank—
as if
the destitute landscape painter,
in her mad rush
to make windblown autumnal trees,
forgot to give the sky a color?
You may discuss it
with the neighbor,
or the florescent grocer
whose volubility
is automated
as the wind in those trees;
or, you may
say nothing to anyone, choosing
to remain
undeclared on the subject,
honing your inevitable
inaudibility,
practicing craving
this muteness—
as the day does.
