Looking.

A storm

is a storm

is a storm.

But the white!

it shifts noiselessly

Robbing us in broad daylight

of definition,

Like those misfits

with heads like balloons

Open from vacancy

No wrist for string.

It’s tiring

laying on our backs

watching the same clouds

Seeing different things.

Wake up

Take your head from the grass

before the worms bore in.