rESURFACING tHE sURFACE*

No Prussian blue sky today; no robin’s egg blue blueness. A creel gray sky, clouds lined up like sheep to the slaughter, pickaxe separating hank from shoulder. I walked in a hobble--legs curtsied and spayed--feet arching, a cutthroat sky skipping stones across the cumber of my forehead. My radium pop-in is aching; the stave-pin that holds everything in place is loosening, separating cacique from shim-joist. Aaron Copeland made delightful music, Doctor Copeland the coaster in the plug of my shoulder.