The sky started
As gray as
The rinse bowl
For an artists
Brushes absent of
Color containing many
A parasoles opened
Casting opaque shadows
Everything is muted
As though time
Has turned down
Its own volume
Sleepiness persists here
Daybreak takes effort
Unlike Christmas morn
Even birdsongs lay
Absent like a
Cut telephone line
All I hear
Is my own
Sip sip sip
And grass growing
