when you look at the sky—that’s for everyone
no one can own it—people try to write on it
project movies on it—I’ve seen ’em, I know
what I am talking about—no one owns them,
the clouds—they’re castles, mountain ranges,
Hard Rock Candy Mountain—where you get
cigarettes from cigarette trees—you look
at them at sunset—when they build from pink
and fluffy—to dark and blacker than black
hearts, black times—blot out the stars, blot
out the sun—and then they’re your best friend
make it rain when you’re too hot—and then they
arrive with ice and a brawl of snow that smacks
you like a fist and then they’re no friend—and then
you know … no one owns them—mighty castles
greater than the richest man’s home—brilliant
paintings better than any Old Master—the root
of architecture, music, statues, poetry & theology—
and they are as much mine as yours—and I am happy
to share the view neighbour—it’s a beautiful evening,
the sun’s majesty glorious colours … yada yada—postcard?