Descent into Limbo
Gray is permeable,
Absorbs shadow and shade
With equal ease:
Of anvil dust, the shivery gray
Of graphite, gray
The density of clay,
Rain and greasy soot
To make a gray ink,
A leaden spectrum,
Untinged by, purged of,
The gray quarry pond
Out of which
A bloated body is lifted.
Inasmuch as sleep descends, tomorrow’s
Iteration of fog will lift from the surface.
If one dreams one dreams of water—
Of a river that winds in wide arcs across a dark floodplain;
Of rare Venetian honey from flowers periodically submerged in lagoon tides.
Adrift, without the knowledge of the depth beneath,
One perceives the stayed tension of a storm far off in the distance;
But no clear border, endpoint, or landfall.
A bit of blue borrowed from Piero della Francesca flashes,
But little else reaches the surface.
The dinghy is the width of a stretcher, the width of a grave—each a bed of sorts.