Friday, March 12, 2021


When it's 
finally swathed 
in sunlight this mellow, 

the crescendoing world  
feels impervious 
to poetry.

The impenetrable
blues, the crude browns
and yellows,

the fertile, battered 
outside your window—

this world looks
too much like 
what it already is

to ever submit 
to metaphor's 
impoverished transmutation 

or suffer distillation
to some analogue 
more clever 

by even 
its shrewdest