I get up and pull the cloak
of this grey day around me.
It's like entering a basement room;
wet laundry hangs like clouds,
cold sweat on the concrete walls.
Breathing yesterday's air and no-
where to turn but around & around
in this small, dim dampness. How
it closes in with dark comfort,
familiar & despised. These shutters
with their brass clasps pretending
they can lock out the clouds. Fog
thick as old wool. I half expect you
to step out of it as you do in dreams,
old loves taking form, taking substance
from muffled lonliness, and longing.
~ SB =^..^=