in the clear winter night there’s

one window still light,

behind it

a grown man curses his

slow computer.

that man is me.


my mind throbs and beats and shimmers

when it looks behind my eye

at those incidental clouds in the woods between trees,

it has its own style for doing so,

a tiny needle-like remembering stitches

the wordings into nerves.

my nature ponders, standing before clouds,

incredulously, naturedly, inevitably,

gladly and earnestly, then takes

a couple steps and peers out from behind my eye,

it sees – tea, sandwiches, writing –

cloudy incidentalness here, too. strange,

it thinks, I have my own style.