There are times I look up and find the sky absent. The screen is off, no background to display. My hands immediately try to find the power button, encased in cardboard boxes filled with drippings of life. I suspect moisture is making the circuit trip up like a gangly teen with flapping shoelaces. But I can never bring myself to tear out the heart to have a look. Maybe I’m just too soft. Or maybe, there’s actually a part of me that enjoys the absence overhead.
Engines chug away
propelling the clouds into new positions
that people read
as sacred teachings.
to the mechanics behind their prophets.
Those maintaining the perpetual motion
no longer speak or hear
in a common tongue.
is lost to them now.
I stroll down the path,
well trodden, like the ones
your feet automatically follow even when you’re not thinking where you’re going and suddenly find
a sharp turn;
you’ve arrived at your destination.
Yet this time,
I turn and find myself not
at the big, towering structure of work,
but stepping onto a white fluff
that spreads great feathered wings and lifts me up
The wind whips my hair around,
obscuring my vision,
then it clears and I’m chasing dandelion seeds
across the skyline.
A V of birds passes nearby,
I wave at them,
wishing them luck in their new land.
My winged cloud plummets;
I wonder where it might stop.
It doesn’t stop at all.
The ground rushes up, but I pass through it
into a dark, warm cocoon
of blankets and hot water bottles.
I realise I’m holding my breath.
I release it, along with my cosy shield
and find my feet
right where they should.