Flake White

Flake white, a Lowry sky,
atop a shivering earth
and we, amid this flatness,
making way.

There are no details to be discerned
from such an insipid texture,
only the earth beneath our feet,
and even then, the world
fitting only where it touches.

And there we feel its lack of glamour,
hanging loose from weighted shoulders –
every inch of leanness cloaked,
hungers of embarrassment unspoken,
corrupted to mere belly growls
of spontaneous outrage.

Flake white, a Lowry sky,
bleeds away all contrast.
Stiff little figures limping,
each a universe of detail
in a seemingly purposive crowd,
all the while no more
than uncertain vectors,
energy directed, and diluted –
a painterly portrait
of a profound isolation.