Paradox in Experience

Walking to poetry
didn’t get caught in the rain/storm—
there’s a bit of growing green in the sky
taking turns, or maybe not
with the deep shades of darks,
predictions of hail and
gusty winds,
what rain smells like
mingled with the odors of
metal and oil refined plumes,
yellow and white clouds backed by blue
light—peeks from behind the last of the massive
grey wall of wind
the now heavy drops of rain—
lasting most of rush hour.

—AND—

who am I kidding?
between ambiguous resistance
and travel
covid and company
heat upon hot
upon arid upon
dust upon wind
upon fires upon
—land—
my lack of intention and attention
toward poetry—toward writing
has gotten out of hand
my commitment flew the coup