How All Invisible Things 
Will Make Themselves Otherwise Known

I.
Today I saw you for 
the first time yet.
The clouds had cut 
an image of you, different 
shaped, I'm sure, but right.

This explains why I have
imagined that the sky was soaking
me up like a sponge, why I was melting 
into it, or boiling off to be clouds. Look:
you are the sky. I can see your eyes in it.

I'm sorry I haven't written much,
lately. I have been concerned, you see, 
that all my poetry will disintegrate
under the absolution of my atoms,
as they burst up like birds.

Today, for the sky, I write poetry anyway.

II.
There is a coincentric method
to your words. I listen first to 
what you mean, then to what 
you won't say, or can't, and I love
the many stupid things you would never
ever bother with. And I will commit
your words to memory daily,
as they fall from your fingers, 
like obvious peaches and pears,
or like brilliant red leaves, or 
rain; the kind of rain that makes 
you shut your eyes and tilt
your crazy angles up to swallow the sky.

III.
The way you are swooping there,
reflecting off the dazzled water,
that parabola of flight is my first 
revolution. Let us breathe, now.
I can feel the softness of clouds
cool in my throat, and I press
my hands and face against 
the airline glass as though
it were your hands, your face.

IV.
I have killed 
the science of life.
Now, I am alive.


Tay Arrow Sherman.




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