The Mist Lifts
       

The fickle insolidity of winter
in a higgledy-piggledy city full
of flimsy timber houses and brick veneer
(and stately Victoriana, to be fair)
as opposed to the monumental seasons
of Europe, solemnly inaugurated,
stretching forth like imperial esplanades,
or tropical humidity forever —
that’s what we talk about over steaming cups
in low-fat sunlight. It has to be better
than perversely looking forward to the day
when life is finally brought to a standstill
by rigorously transparent procedures.

So this is how the mist lifts in a city
that some gifted children consider the pits
while others at the cutting edge of retro
throw a pinch of wishbone ash into the mix;
it lifts like this off a mirror-still river
where, as it is everywhere, cruelty is
unmistakable as a triangle, but
midwinter’s riddled with brilliant days like this.

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Copyright © 2013 Chris Andrews All rights reserved
from Lime Green Chair
The Waywiser Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission