Little pockets of light
in a hairy mass
overhead. Any point
I look at, the mass
is moving. It is moving
everywhere I look.
You cannot imagine
how much sky there is
above me. It’s amazing
I’m not afraid.
The roof is alive.
It has little pockets
of light, spots,
and strips of orange
along the horizon grazing
dark junipers.
Look up again and the one
cloud’s broken into lots, a herd,
a pod of gray, gray,
gray whales, and the sky between
is vaguely blue again, pastel,
interstitial, outlining the glacially
slow loss of my life.
