Nonfiction—Gray

is the smell of sea on a day wet, the clouds unfurling like a rug released. The air pushes against your cheeks and whispers little things to make you sad, to make you want to toss behind half-skinned dreams to fling across fingers of foam.

holds back the light; defuses it; forgets it; fucks it; mixing ash and stone and dripping cords with trees of lightning, pillars of sun. These are the clouds that haunt the dead poets; the brushstrokes of sorrows. The lost boat carries the half-drowned and their hasty poems. The house holds the hill while pensive breaths peer for storm-sign, or a mirror.

is sudden and still until even the waves grow silent.