i watch the drifting clouds
and my mind synchs to their speed
and i wonder whether i'm the cloud
or the cloud is me
and i know that i'm not moving
and yet i feel i am
and i know that i'm not weightless
and yet i feel i am
and i know i can't live aimlessly
and yet i feel i can
bleached in bright sunshine --
thin, wispy white clouds
are barely seen
amid the washed out skies
some summer day --
sending one running
for sunglasses
to avoid a blinding headache
it seems the world
might fade into a
tabula rasa, or
blanch anemically
Rain sidles up in a commanding cloud
-- early --
And so it waits in its cloud,
like the awkward party guest
who sits in his car,
waiting to be fashionably late,
but - not having decoded
what "on-time" really means -
arrives early, nevertheless.