Just how flat is this light?  We wonder up the parkway

afternoon loosening          its sheet metal sheen pressed

matte and marking age. Vacant, grey by the rules of vapor

and haze, I still see contours. Undulant particles

promise there is a river it has a shape.

Vague but we’ll take it       the continued

assurance that firmament actually bends

has an edge, lips to other edges. Cares enough

to impress. The elements are smaller

than they once were       water

atomizes, chants I could live with all this

chipping. Ten red nails fleck

meniscus suns, rim a brimming sink.

A rainy Saturday at the DMV reminded me of this poem I wrote after a drive on a dreary May day. [Yesterday day was less anxious, less in need of a friend's hemming.]