The Dark Grey Cloud Bank

Not even really an object—
An experience of the light
With ragged, shifting boundaries,

An experience that you name
As an object, a static thing.
Are live cells the only objects,

Or maybe planets, maybe stars,
Dynamic, homeostatic,
Maintaining systems apart?

That feels unsatisfactory.
The less fractal-like the border,
The more an object’s an object?

The dark grey cloud bank has taken
Over half the sky. From the jet
That’s just appeared from above it,

It’s probably a ragged edge,
Not the massed wall it seems from here.
What have we done by naming things?

Did we need language for storing,
As a way of storing meaning,
The deep past, the far future, those.

Did they begin making meaning?
Does meaning just want to go home?
The dark grey cloud bank holds its storm.