The world has turned and left me spinning
time is thinning
and I am alive. I long to live
in the clouds, my mind
a head of me
among the billowing blanket of puffy cumulus,
a misty mystic world, delicate and wet
hinting at gray but not turning,
only pulpy white.
But mostly the soft outline of anticipation
traces my thoughts
not among the clouds but
thin whisps of moonlight spin
a web in windows obscuring – or
delaying – the world
where I go round.