Grey Skies over the Bronx:
Could be morning.
Could be the water cooled
on used glass.
Could be
the window.
Could be
a minnow dribbling
over some fool’s chin.
Could be
us.
Could be
shadows
stealing dopamine.
Could be
the rain.
Could
be Mingus wringing
Bebop from clouds.
Could be the sun.
Could be this new-
found hole in our
heart valves.
Could be snow.
Could be Eurydice
blue from a snake’s
kiss.
Could be denial.
Could be
this head
closing its doors.
Could be compulsion.
Could be
this clot
thick
in the back
of our throats.
Could be this day.
Could be
the way Dad asks
why God left
him this way.
Could be me.
Could be
the way that old train
of an answer
skips
the station
of my mouth.