Wednesday, July 30, 2014

The Sky Becomes the Same as What Is Added to It

Clouds count themselves
Lucky to be
Seen by my eyes
And distinguished

From blue zero.
The red dirt sulks.
No replacements

Found, propounds truth
As what may not
Or may be real,
Or, in the end,

Real and unreal,
Past description.
Past description
The catalogued

Clouds disappear
Into their blue
I am not eyes.

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