Blue Machine
Shelves of cloud stacked down. Then the brighter break. The mountain’s dirty load. The building’s touch gives the wind its pitch. And experience? The critic sharp upon abstraction? Anything’s that. 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. ...
