It slithers over
Ordinary moments
The building, churning
Restlessness
And suddenly everything is too
Tight, too
Confining
Too close
The air is even thick with
Some colorless thing
I sit still, hearing myself
Inhale as my
Mind spins
Settling nowhere
Spiraling
And then I recall that
April is coming
But not
Spring, not
Now
I keep a window open with a
Picture and details, as if the
Image in my head is not
Enough, an image the
Sun can’t
Bleach and the
Rain can’t
Wash and the
Snow can’t
Cover
With a quiet sharpness it
Registers that this
Smog filtering through weary lungs is
Grief, and I
Remind myself it
Hasn’t really
Not in the scheme of things
Not really
Been so very long
Since
