March

This wind kicks wet dust into my eyes
and forces the gears into an unwilling down-shift.
The ocean is still cold in the throat,
bristles mist from the wavetips
coughs dizzy seagulls up gravity's backside.

The sky is awash with oysters and dead nuns;
sallow bulges falling in and out of love with the sun.
The colors are losing their religion
slipping through every kind of light.
Reflections get sunk in open-mouthed puddles
the rain shivers on either side,
hesitates,
then makes one or two wet stabs at the sidewalk.