Tomorrow I'll Be Stranger

Late on Palm Sunday
in November?
                            IMPOSSIBLE
in the slop & mire 
of the larger narrative

                                              a muscle memory

like the bleached blonde with liquid eyes shim-
mering as she occupies the southwest corner of my
apprehension

                           & so across the wet
                                                concrete & iron
the hollow stone steps that
                                    lead to fog plumes & forgetfulness
dark overcast skies drill down
                                    a spit of drizzle
                                                  & the gulls fly backwards