and clouds


I watch as the day gets ready its sky

unrolls its wide yardage of blue fabric

all the way up against the mountains

the piles of dirt and rock

Billy Collinsís sent me this bottle of wine

one he drinks or has drunk from

it appears the corkís been messed with

in a small letter once he told me about Cork

it was violent and unsettling

why he drinks

told he learned about most things in life by

letters from Robert Burns

although heís not so formal

calling him Bobby

like a baseball outfielder

Billy he admits comes from his mother

not allowed to ever fully grow up

Billy, stop playing with your letters and get a real job

then being thirty-seven

the age of Robert Burns when he left us

in a burdened down little hut

asking or whispering to

to only see the unfolding of the sky one more time

the way one speaks when no words come out

only the lapsed sad final escape of air

the same as flowers make

at the last tiring of the day