Under the brightest noon light
clouds still do not know the blue sky above,
or how they drown the planet
in a swill gray below, depressing the trees and me,
nor can they remember what they once were--
bunny rabbits, cotton tails and floppy ears
that wish they could be straighter.

Over the darkest, least of moon's nights,
birds do not know that morning will return
so they sing that they cannot see.

In the width of caffeine summer drinks,
I cannot know how to be at 4AM
when unwelcome warmth has cooled to a wet stink,
and the clouds hang themselves,
and the birds talk to their echo.

06/07/2008

Posted on 06/07/2008
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