On Gray

What can one do on dreary summer days? The sky is gray, and so is my heart.

at every turn I see the
infallible gray
dripping down the windows
sliding into the corner of my eye
settling in the webbing between my
fingers—

which, incidentally
once created a myriad known as
Color,
paint under the nails and on
tips of fingers splashing
Pigmentation
on vast sheets of white.

but now I find myself in a world
Quite
without rainbows
Quiet
with gray

sound muted against
fog, which is, of
course:

Gray.