Grey Day
February 20, 1981
A monochrome morning, a blurred page on which no poem desires to be written. All an artist needs to brush that sky would be simply a wash of dirty water. But because there is nothing better or other I acquaint myself with grey, begin to see darker stainings, silver shinings, overlays of glints and gleamings along roof edges, between the dripping lips of leaves and in the polished steel of puddles on the road; discern the variance of m oods within a mood.