The day is gray - when water folds into skyline like its lapping heaven
Yet the face of the sky is flat, motionless, settled - still
As if the wet lick does not tickle its nose or catch just enough of its mouth to make it retract back in disgust. A pall placed upon it by hands unseen, it is dispassionate.
Yet there is a gateway - the legs reflected in the ocean's mouth, the top disappearing from its view.
Is it a chin rest of the gods?
A step so the god may reach to grope for the sun?
Maybe it's for the god's cigarette - that nasty habit it's trying to break?
Or a hairpin to keep unruly tresses obedient?
But there it is - hard and motionless; embodying in flesh what the vapor sky expresses - out of place
Like a piece of trash on the wilderness path - unthinkingly, carelessly tossed aside.
- Writer's Workshop, 2019
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