this isn’t last spring’s grey,
the kind of grey that made no sense,
(that seeped around the edges of even
the flowerbeds, in brilliant
sunshine and scarlet)
bubbled up from somewhere deep,
poison to the plant life
with every step I took

this is the kind of grey that is low-grade
not in so much contrast with the weather
and the local flora
but comes in
from outside

pushing my own lines of
the brain chemistry
the same not-color of everything
I stole

laying out someone else’s credit card
with a smooth snick
as soulless as my sex life
and with a lower interest rate