In the sky
Where I live clouds often rest on hills. It’s easy to walk into claggy evidence of sky. Clouds are in the sky, I am in cloud, so I am in the sky. There isn’t a line – like a children’s drawing – where sky begins. It starts above my boots, at the top of my head. Over there on the fence. The sky is on my bed, in my bag, in the fridge flowing around the cheese. I breathe the sky in, then whoosh my particles are in the sky. I am in the sky and the sky is in me.