All One Limit

No word desolate enough
comes to me. No word that cries through the page
the way this light drizzle cries through the fledgling
green of May trees. The way the word of the sun,
diffused, impossible to find precisely, cries
through the glowing dun of an overcast
rounded from limit to limit. All one limit:
the sky screwed down on the earth like a bottle top
of chalky plastic. The grey underneath me,
divulged in the drains from its tomb of slush
by spring, and raised by desolation
to the sky, as the new sky. No word
desolate as your being elsewhere and the fear,
almost knowledge, that you could never
be happy with me here.