the sky is a damp and
mealy gray.
the engine of the bus roars,
inescapable and
deafening and
i can barely see out
of the rain-flecked windows.
the city is dark and
slick with almost-ice:
fat white heavy raindrops
congealing in the gutters,
in muddy holes dug by great
groaning yellow-black
anonymous machines,
in droplets on my glasses and
my waterproof.
I know my own mind, my own
soul, and
it is heavy like this
rain. it is cold like this
rain. and
i do not limit myself,
but i am limited
nonetheless.
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