Grit & Clouds

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Even through the thick wood fence, a blued wind finds a way to slap my cheeks cold.
I imagine the flesh falling off the bone like leaves that flee their branches in winter.
My own palm trees abandoned their outer layer with ease, and I watched them,
littering the streets, getting caught under cars, and dragged down the block with a dull screech.
They look like giant squids torn tentacle by tentacle.
I mourn their loss.
I watch a cat sunbathe on the glassy roof of a Tesla, absorbing the warmth between passing clouds.
I wonder if I’ve ever felt that free.
Through braided blades of grass, I squirrel away some weightless thoughts,
storing them for winter where I’ll think about them later.
A quail nests in the bush behind the garbage cans.
I dream of incubating in a shell, bursting out, limb by limb, and smelling trash.
More of that cold wind cracks like a whip.
I give it a fighting chance at lifting me.
Light as a feather, but I’m stiff and I’m bored.
There is nowhere left for me to go.
I search for grit, but all I see are clouds.

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