The sky occurs low in our manufactured breath. Clouds surprise you, dotting those sentences you prize. It feels like trees in the beginning. The higher sky feeds birds and dust. Further still, the sky lets planets wander. The feast arrives soon and softening. Something in the time between words serves as space. Call it your own, for now. The sky collects dust and rainfall and whatever you think you have. Derivatives occur as a just plan. You have seen the smoke and soot. The sky stiffens into limits, then a cloud. Recitations meander as easily as the filling of storm drains. The sky up there is the sky in there. You can remember that.
poems, fireflies...