Clouds roll over.
It takes the room.
I worry it's too shady
here----here, it's thick.
Plucking the air
from the spaces
I wish were clear.
Clouds roll on top.
It takes the rooms.
Coughing at the
windows here---
here, they're fogging.
Smearing in
the choking
to the pane
I wish would
connect.
Clouds roll by.
It takes the rooms.
I worry, they're too heavy
here----here, they're
evaporating.
Picking the air up,
putting it down from
the spaces I wish were solid.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
