Today
the gray in the sky
is as glorious as spittle
against the Moaning Lisa.
(spit on me, she says)
The sky feels like this:
ancient batteries in that beat up fridge,
(nobody cares for these cheep cells, nobody cares for the pressing down ceiling)
(on a day like this, that makes me sink to my knees)
which compose the same sensation
as a cool wet stone
in my palm;
Why the mottled face, my sky?
(The stone is clammy in my fingers)
Why the wet that tugs and pulls
until the gray you sport is found in my eyes?
It will stay
pressing and bruising slow as chinese water torture
until I realize
the blue above is kissing
these clouds.
Then, the sun can be felt at the back of my throat,
warming me.