Good morning! — The pale opalescent haze
Hangs like a second skin over the sealed roofs.
It cannot puncture the lay of the land,
So it sits and makes the land sweat
Until, nearly satisfied, it dissolves
As the tired, hating sun trivializes
The winking lights in the waiting windows
And closes finally their lids like fireflies hushed.
Birds vanish into the haze
And reappear unchanged.
The painter on his porch
Admires his flowers, though not enough to keep them from dying.
He gives himself a headache, receives congratulations
On the flower box, takes an aspirin,
And torches the whole thing
Because he didn't have the last word at the party last night,
Because they could not thank him enough.
Curse the flowers,
The sun would fry them and eat them for dinner anyway
Although they act as if they're doing the sun a favor.
