as if the wind broke up the flat angst
with the rythmic chop
of every seventh ripple
of a seventh wave cresting in
The grey of the sky - like shining slate
cracks here and there where
Apollo's whimsy seeks
the drip drip lips of the river
beneath the huge bridges
straddling the thighs of her shores.
It is the green that breaks the sadness
visible more clearly the further south
The green offset by the buzz and humm
and bustling traffic bugs.
I wish I had Palisades.