for Chloe Viner Collins
Sometimes the day begins
in a bloom of gray: a static ceiling of clouds,
our minds too paralyzed to imagine the sun.
No colorful birds pass the window,
none pierce the silence with music.
We’re sunk then, you and I,
like stones at the bottom of a sea.
Melancholia dances about us, grabs us
by the hair, grins in our faces.
Tomorrow he may be gone.But then again, probably not.