The grey that gathered in the afternoon
Of denial, of rejecting phone calls
From well-calibrated machine strangers,
Was not fog, not something you'd say. It falls.
Attraction deformed Einstein's universe.
Patrolling light defined its prison walls,
And gravity became geometry,
But something about geometry crawls.
What could you have said, anyway, wasn't
Like the blarney any miscreant bawls--
Misquoted scripture, slang, faked high dudgeon,
Self-serving illogic? Pretty much all
You would and have written already on the air
That grey, black, blue, or white rose gravid with despair.
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