Secret cloud messengers
hover between two different
lands. The shapes of celestial
bodies weeping through
the telescope.
Bloated verse, on your
salt, and water. Your skin
turns an Indian blue with
ink being drunk by heady
fat poems.
How often do you write
about my skin, my toes,
your walls, and how often
about this insipid gift of
laughter.
All that remains from
an afternoon, and six
hundred and seventy five
hours of conversation in
monologue.
Is laughter thus the only
sequestered being that was
born of me and you, quoted
in verse number 72, a song
for clouds.
