we drowned the sky to see what it was
wrap an edge
or two, big blue
tarp; the way you
fold a cloth around
a cup that will not
make the trip
to the other side
of the room, the
yellow eye around
the corner of the
tarp, the pucker
and pout we kept
meaning to flip.
the way a small
thing stays small
until it is the thing
you tell to the back
side of a dog-eared
square. hold the
cloth under your
chin, the way you
would a child
when they spill
as little things do,
and as we know, blue
is the last color in
a thing to go and
we have watched
enough things go
to know this
