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.]