winterising
maybe we’ll just talk about the weather,
pretend it’s still a smock-donning summer.
the clouds are what we make them after all.
our heads are immortalised in those screens.
overheating on the green, green grass, so
maybe we’ll just talk about the weather.
since the rockeries are bare and our eyes
rescinded back to hibernating seeds:
the clouds are what we make them after all,
so let’s make them rain just this once for us.
precipitate the contrails early or
maybe we’ll just talk about the weather
instead. nod at the window and stare at
our hangnails waiting to bleed. and just
forget when the clouds were what we made them.
after all, we’re out of bulbs this season
and the skies have turned to blank papyrus.
there is no weather to speak of any longer.
we can send the clouds back into the sky.
03.11.2021
