Shelves of cloud stacked down.
Then the brighter break.
The mountain’s dirty load.
The building’s touch gives the wind
The critic sharp upon abstraction?
How C bends the hand
or hisses out
from teeth and tongue.
The soft craft of these heavy clouds
is wet in the fist.
And the boat I’m watching rock across
the range—a blue machine that breaks
and opens, breaks and opens
and shows me when to change.