today, i am scraping my face on the sky.

these grey / blue streaks of mine
own, strike and
sand-down my will and spirit.
i am alone in the windy grey

my bones are whetted with
weak / cold spite and a
grey / twilight sinks in a
black-and-white snapshot of a lonely quicksand.

i cut a deal with a landscape of chaotic
design. i sold ten days, then twelve, then,
too many month (s)
there is, yet a way home, contrived (..?)

the sand—windy claws—she beckons.
land. clefted through with blue
white-gold. cold trenches pathed out in
weak light, upside // down / snow

i’ll wait, and bide, in the grey grass
i’ll not turn, clenched, in the
sand / crystalline
afterimage of a
sky / breeze / grey thing

today, its grey outside