For The Three Muses

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Snapshot 05 April 02006

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 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.