*
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.
