Raintown #6

pink gray indistinct morning thru blind’s
slats—black silhouetted fir &
light pole—the dozen birds roosting a-

long the wire—a heater’s white noise, a lemon
yellow wall clock’s delicate
tick—security lights casting orange

reflections on car windows—in my
dream in a white hallway you shocked me laughing
someone else’s laughter—

sounds like goodbye—a glove left be-
hind on the concrete walkway at Rose Quarter
caught in that waving gesture—hushed

whistle of a shower in the next apartment—
on the eaves of the building next door the
crow carves guttural “o” & “zero”

cawing into gray air as if the words
“one” “impossible” “isolation” con-
sisted of all plosive consonants—pink

fades to yellow gray—a silver car pulls
out—orange lights die down—this
morning: another thing that has broken 


Jack Hayes
© 2012