Grey Weather is Here

[adat]

Bond precedes word
as life precedes breath.
Riddles of chickens,
dinosaur eggs,
and whether tomorrow can ever come
fill gaps between notes
like the space between raindrops.
And the choir sings on.
 
Nothing to say,
no time to say it,
and anyway:
these ears are sealed.
“Sing it to the storm,”
cries the wet man
with a closed umbrella
tucked under his arm.
And so we shall.
 
No smile,
blank face,
handing out recipes of despair.
The shell-shocked will walk
and talk
and do what can be done
to remember, on nights overcast,
where Polaris dances, still.
All cut short as someone,
assured they know best,
concerned enough to condescend,
safely says sorry:
no notes allowed.
And, besides,
on this island,
north is not really north,
anyway.
 
Outside,
rain turns to sleet
pavement slippery,
a glassy trampoline underfoot
tossing back the city lights,
so many paper airplanes
crumpled up,
careening away.