Clouds are time. Not stories. I float
on my back and infinite variables of gray
collapse, enclose, twine layer on layer,
in a never repeating variation of all
that is the moment.

Dust burns if the fire is hot enough.
Anything burns if the fire is hot enough.
I burn in this lake waiting for the rain.
I rake in the day with the sweep of my hands.
I will a cloud to take form.

I swim across the lake expecting tomorrow
will be nothing like today. Clouds remain
impossible to explain.
The current is electric,
this the stroke of my arm. I do not hesitate.
Nothing hesitates.

A mountain of gold beams seen through an aperture
within endless grey. It is sunset. I have swum across
the lake, through the day. I float between land,
sky and the telling. I turn to return, face the rising
moon, its yoke of infinite stars.