On Glitter and Doom

Working on a new Michael Field poem for my dissertation and somewhere some hundred miles from here Tom Waits is scratching out those first few notes and if I imagine well enough, I feel like my dress might just drop off me from here. But I am in a public coffeehouse and I am writing verse like a T.W. himself would endorse as a response to art and its numerous ways to break a heart. Give me a grapefruit moon and a ruby-red sunrise on the day called tomorrow.