in wet wool wrapped up to
sunken-eyed city glass,
i dreamt tattletale grey cloudcover
or heavily, a beaten ocean
sent to the sky on swollen fists,
a white blood thickened ground.
wind with a warm tongue
there is some fear
that this sweet, ash rain
is the Devil come to love us,
seeing us pallid,
pitiful sons to be sure.
bad habits of dirty hands
yellowed as we drowsed and slept.
even Paving Men lay stone-dead
beneath collapsed hands.
persisting folks clothe in fog,
(developing eyelessness and creamy transparency
within a few centuries)
and fumble through
unknowable crowds, wire hanger trees
with no flesh or irregular blooms to speak of.