Clear As Slate

The strange gray light of a clear dawn
When rays of sun have not shown up

Yet, and there aren’t clouds to show off
The sorts of tints that beg for paints,

But there’s no moon, and no stars left,
So that the gloam looks like bright ash,

A fine, smooth gray that glows a bit,
From one side of dome to the next—

There’s no point to this, no core truth,
No warm thoughts for the lives in town,

On the streets, in all the squat blocks
Of faux caves folks built to live in,

Just a kind of light that tricks you
To think, for one sec, clear is slate.