Its not that the weather finally breaks
The lonely weather does as a roving singular
And does not have an accompanying choice
And even if it did
We would not have access
As we largely don’t
With one another

Only what we might pull up
Or what will float out into our presence
Is what is said and
That changes it
When we stand beside
And do our best to match

The songs of birds or those of blue whales
That dive in depths beyond time’s existence
And somehow communicate a needed effort

Those clouds
As dark as spring’s tumuli
Voiced as the broad fin of a sailfish
That eats pound on pound
Of giant squid loaded with hundreds of gallons of ink
Shooting through
With esophageal muscle
Bound to a bone sprit
Aiming for the barrier
Of a thunder
That will tear royal curtains

Well, maybe not so profound,
But at some level of quantity or loudness
Possibly even not much more
Than a strong mutter
Is what we hope to get across
Whether a pull tab beer can from 1980
Bottomed with black snakes from Alabama
Or a piece of driftwood worn fingerprint smooth
Into cyclical assemblages of identification
And both knowing the lap waves
And the elemental pleasure
Of shaking hands

With the unlimited combinations of molecules
Compounded in oxygen and simple hydrogen
As might a couple
Corralling one another in arms
While strolling
Through a supermarket parking lot
Somewhere amidst torrents of a rainfall
So fully washed the loan banks
Begin to make sense
When the vaulted basements flood

And how all the matters may wash back
To the sky
In an undertow
Of an unsteadiness that is also light significance
Resulting from mutual acknowledgment
Not much more than a budding hunch
Fleet and swift
Which is why four footprints
Disavow as empty imprints
For debris that can only cohere
Because they are in mutual proxy
For the next Observers
That want to share in something to say.

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