Gray rain has worn the whiteness of the sill.
Clean panes shine decently against the chill.
The afternoon follows its shadow in.
No one will tell tomorrow it has been.
Good-bye to chicory and Queen Anne's lace.
You come a slash of last sun on your face.
Your clothes already blued by hungry dusk,
Diminishing the dream force to its husk.
Who pays the flower's fare into yesterday?
'No one. They just belong like us you say.'
How strange a patch of rain that is so small
Could cover the diminsions of us all.