Open Rafters

While painting outside one morning
The door to the attic flat white,
Last night’s raindrops
Are blown off the leaves
And evaporate their own notions
Before landing on the ground,
Forgotten, unplaced,
Bright ideas

Sent back into the sky,
Up to the arid clouds
Before laden with the too heavy grey formations,
As more resemblance
With winds that only know
Weight as all is seen in total,
And therefore absent,
Breezes unpossessive,

The same as the lights
Off a reflective moon, or a sun,
A drift orbital flight unknown to itself,
Part of everything, as with matter
That is a communal in a dance

While funny dank shadows
Croak jealousy to be heard,
Those tail ends behind objects,
Hidden bullish coves of secrets,

Also a part of light in the caverns
Of this something that sings itself
From a base of cornored emotion,
Into openings, sprung from the opposite
Of what is prefered, carried to spacious air,
Glinting sparse vapor,

Tuned beyond distinctions as what we can
Only know as temporary scintillate
In the uppermost lofts where a few bats
Maybe spince laughs of sonar
And the dry framework suspends
In the air of our arid heads.