24. among the cloud faces

lamplight falls quietly | on the page

almost silently | as if weightless

separated from these realities | of earth

the rocking of waves | a burst of wind

how her breath | wraps around your neck

the words rest motionless | on the page

they seem not to understand | themselves

their concern is limited to | endurance

if they last the night | the morning can read

them back out into the air | to disappear

your thoughts assemble | on the page

the toilet bowl represents | the sun at noon

a bent pitchfork | replaces the concept of throwing

you are certain its three tines | identify it as an E

and you hear a subvocal “EEE” | inside your ear

another alights her eyes | on the page

she recognizes the language | of the images

but she cannot pronounce | pitchfork

so she begins to scream | as quietly as she can

you imagine the poem thereon | a great success

 

in the past there was | a dog and a lake

and the dog among the waters | of the lake and

a handful of stones | each large enough to be a word

when you threw each word into | the water

the dog pronounced | each word perfectly

the lake was limned | with trees most

cut with knives to | leave a mark | [I am/was here]

the marks are initials | and names separated by

a + | as if that symbol of the cross | connected them

you cry while reading | these texts aloud

on the edge of the lake | in its mud or sand

you write small temporary poems | with a stick

so waves can wash | away these words | you realize

to understand these | they must disappear

you accept | only lapping water can express these

after the lake’s reading | you raise your eyes | to see

the words | inhabiting the entire sky above you

only you understand | the language of the clouds

or see how each word changes | as a cloud expands

you begin | to recite | the sky | from memory

 

each word in a cloud poem | changes constantly

an edge of a cloud might evaporate | or a piece

might separate from the rest | and you under-

stand | how that affects the meaning of the word

and the poem | how a cloud that rains | carries

a warning and a promise | you recalled the beauty

of one cirrocumulus cloud | you had read as a boy

its beauty | how it hurt you to know it | know what

it meant | saw how the poem developed | you

watched that poem | until it dissipated completely

allowing you to experience it | as a whole

you remembered a smooth lenticular poem | so

well you could recite it years later | few could

appreciate the muddy beauty | of a nimbostratus

poem | but you could | though you preferred the

orographic poem | and awaited their rain

coming late in the day | sometimes the simplest

cumulus poem | could quell your worries | in even

as worrying a time | as ours right now | though

you loved mammatus poems | their dangerous rain