10.31.17

A gray sky promises nothing.
It laments in folds of its
own interpretation,
like origami,
like the mangled metal
frame of a totaled car
the proper definition of which
requires its describer
to invest
in the twisted logic of disasters.
There is beauty in the bleak sky.
There is a certain peace that falls like mist
on those who’ve reached
the bedrock of tragedy.

Written at 10:35 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.