This morning’s sky
Has cleared like
That upturned look
And sweet slight
Smile through tears
After we knew
We must part
As we sat
Sitting and breaking
And saying nothing
Because post truth
Nothing else is
Really ever heard
At least not
In the same
Way as before
The sky is
A work in-progress
Blue canvas spattered
Gray chaotic and
Lacking the definition
Of anything finished
It’s a torrent
Of cloudy rumors
Swirling about uncertain
Of its truth
Hazy like Pittsburgh
When steel mills
Billowed noxious smoke
Covering everything everyone
In light soot
Oh these mornings
Make everything turn
Away roll over
Trying to forget
That this day
Ever really started
The hardest love
To have is
The secret love
Oblivious to others
Obvious to us
Even in public
No one knows
Our clandestine affair
Not for shame
We simply are
Two love visionaries
Too far ahead
Of everyone else
To ever be
One of them
Skin the color
Of freshly roasted
Chestnuts or of
Recently ground espresso
Beans or of
Newly varnished hickory
Or of rolled
And aged tobacco
Eyes as black
As black jellybeans
As deep dark
As moonless nights
And lips soft
Like tulip petals
This is you
You to me
Sky rain plump
Saturated clouds like
Sudsy sponges bob
About above me
Saul is tucked
Behind like hands
In gray ovenmitts
All is still
As though everything
Waits for the
Bad news of
The day this
Reminds me of
The soggy days
Of San Francisco
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 