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
neighborhood
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
rhetorician.
