Clouds: I can watch their films in puddles
passionate and slow without obligations of shape or stillness

I can stand with wilted neck and look
                                     directly into the drowned corpse of a cloud

it is cold-blooded down there 
precisely outlined as if under a spell
                                     and it narrows to a weighted point which
                                     throws back darkness

oh yes there is a trembling rod that hangs my head above puddles 
and the clouds like trapped smoke wander under me 
and the sun lies discarded on the tarmac

                                                                    like an old 
                                                       white 
                                        shoe

                    don't go on about those other clouds 
                    those high pre-historic space-ferns 
                    that steam the windows of the wind 
                    I know I could look up and see them
                                    curled like fossils in the troposphere

but I am here

I have been leaning here a long time hunched 
under the bone lintel of my stare

with the whole sky
                    dropped and rippling through my eye 
and now a crow on a glass lens 
slides through the earth