Slug trail skies
The day in x-ray hurts
Where I pull
At the blinds
To dismiss the shapes of frowning
Dust spills a mica race
Like promises in the air
Far above
Rorschach arcs
Where jet planes
Have cut between
We drift in parallelograms
But for this too complicated screed
That we laud in hailed contexts
What in more intimate reflections 
We dismiss
A shell of broken porcelain
Once devoid
All meaning becomes
Tenuous as inconstant praise
Your mouth the sun
Behind hard clouds
                                     slowly spoken 
Makes the shape of                             doubt                              
                                     slow forsaken

Still the grey gets through

Oh, thunder, you said
In that innocuous mid-distance
Where meaning both escapes and evokes

The lights in tall buildings
Play dominoes 
Until almost everyone has left

Rain makes static
Too lacklustre for lightning scars
Just the nondescript
Evening noise
Of cutlery and creaking doors
Too late not to notice
In the paint-chipped plateau
Beyond wet-lipped, quick-torn fingernails
Half open is not the same
As half closed

Though the window jambed 

The grey gets through