I requested that you photograph a cloud outside the window.
You replied with a photograph of my blue sleeve.
The response to my request pleased me; still,
the cloud outside the window was frightfully indignant:
it threw things at the both of us that felt like water
mixed with the feeling that one has when one
is too close to a tuba even tabla in the early morn
or burning one’s very heart with an old match
from a pack leftover
from a failed
presidential campaign
and he is smiling this candidate
and has no idea of what will soon
happen but that is no
different than a cloud or sleeve
or what ever may be left
of us and what often occurs
after a terrible explosion
that we must not mention
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