Nimbostratus
Over the far bridge,
seconded to the guardian of flood and field,
leans my ghost,
the white blur of my own mind,
escaped and lost to me,
brought into the real world with language,
so detached from the wordlessness,
that came to me on previous nights,
A damp and oil-skinned invention,
sharp and fluent, higher than the sun, the stars,
and all astronomy.
Joined to the sky and clouds,
with understanding,
bringing rain with her unknowing,
a coincidental god of rainfall,
a one-way function of the turning world.
No dead and empty space,
marks random pointing of the skies,
It is a filled void,
a climb defined with homogeneous flow,
and dank un-hindered cataracts,
in slow-pans to the ground,
that catch the petty ends of us,
and small complaint.
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