Sky bound, illusions 
turning time into history, 
filtering light through the archives
that separate us from air. 

The warped shoulder 
of night edges towards us, 
striking stars like distant drums
that shimmer in confusion.

I think of no particular passage
but of how space organizes
thought—like a soft mist
shredding the meaning of words.

If we can’t change the weather
then perhaps
we can adapt,
like the mold growing beneath
the kitchen sink, in
darkness, sequestered.
Mark