They Will Sew the Blue Sail


If the rain apologizes as

it falls for falling then we are kin.

I drag my grey noise

down the corridor

to my desk and I drag my grey

noise across the page.

A soft applause goes

up, a curtain call of rain

wetting the whistles

of the leaves into green laminate.

When I look up

I think of your chest hair.

The lichen look on.

We both live in a state

of expectancy,

a state of looking out of one

window and then another

which goes to show that

windows are eyes

more patient.

If the snake fears molting

before it molts

then I am like the snake.

And if not, then I remain

nothing like a snake.

I wet my lips,

mnemonic device

of the universe that I am

and read to myself aloud

and getting louder.