On this day the 7th of April

  wherever you look sky is a flare

sticks and stays it’s

so stubborn the

clouds bright pulp

saddles of dough

self-engulfing

gypsum and mouldy

optician’s light

down the back of your eyeballs

down shoulders

down spine

but pulsates in

the temples

something lodged in the cortex

  no change in the sun not

behind but suspended

no blaze on stump branch

no play of light no motion

those roof tiles deadened to shadow

no pewter in pavement

no rich green

green is gone

  this wind desert

wind doesn’t warm you

fragments

whirls waspish and probing

pixies of dust off the top of the footprints,

the ones consecrated to dry

through last week’s heavy showers