Of days with no sunset, when twilight is merely a gauzy curtain,
Or those early autumns when leaves fall before coloring,
Or long rainy afternoons when the wine bottle is empty.
It’s the legendary color of Guinevere’s eyes, that grey,
Or the cliched color of smoke, slate, doves, and battleships.
It’s the hopelessness of a phone ringing in an empty house,
of a locked trunk with no key, of Venice in November,
of dreams that can’t be remembered in the morning,
of a couple in a whispered argument on a dark street corner,
when one walks away without looking back.
