an incorrigible sky pouts whitely
I never really felt so much before
about the sky, it’s
“apartness”….
to wake up on such a day is to
sleep
I sit, look down on glazed leaves
minute pirouettes a
revelation, revolution
sodden air
thick concrete zones
this is a
city after all
tire-hiss proves it
coming from down below
after all I’m up high,
practically clouded
heavy eye-lids pale
shrouds of “what is”
“what is” seems irrelevant data
white curtains
drawn across the street
two bodies must be improvising
wetly
to
sit on such a day is to stand
in a squared circle of derisive
un-laughter
who knew the clouds were such serious
business
