That leaden shroud. White Chapel fog.
The dull drag of walking in boots
with steel heals. Clock, stuck.
Ill from over-winding. Out of the haze,
the sun will lick cheekbones with halvah
and honey; stars will find home
in that space behind eyelids, filling it
with luxuriant dreams. The graceful
sway of birch trees. Tulips with buttery
leaves. Out of the haze, even gravel
will feel like ermine under skipping bare feet.
Things will seem wonderful again, out of the haze.