The flat clouds are a façade
of clouds, collapsed into
a comic book,
a sky that always
promises a cropping
(if given enough water)
and lunch on a park bench
with strangers
because even strangers
will converse
about weather—
all morning
I descend into other parts
of the morning
the skies partly cloudy
along the beaches—
by midday the gloom
will linger inland like fatty tumors
along the spine of low mountains
I can’t avoid the sky,
its ethos of haze or fog—
between allies of pavement,
the sea somehow
maintains its scent, always
this smack of salt
splendid