The white flowers
will not arrive
by stallion, nor
by lightning.
The stolid courier
will knock, a door
swinging; a suitable
place prepared.
In the cold district,
the exploded heads
of trees look back at me:
why didn't I save them?
Even the sun seems lopped.
But in the face of it
I will stand, have coffee,
& be reminded of you.
It's 6:30, and the sky
turns a spoiled milk shade
before tripping
in its hurry to arrive.