Thursday, February 17, 2022


On any half-
way decent day, 

the clouds 
may look faint 
and far away 

as abstract concepts 
in the head
for which those of us 
toiling for bread
underneath them 

have neither 
the patience, nor 
the occasions. 

But gaze once again 
at their airy nature—

the way their beige 
plumages edge 
over boundaries 

and vanish—
without any interest 
or consequence,

and with nothing 
to say—into infinitudes 
of blue,

and accept
that their silence has
everything to say 

about the perfection 
of the fraction  
of that very same air,

which, up through 
the present, you too 
have been using.