the tops of the clouds roll like an angry sea, I've seen it
tossing right over us, a blanket that we keep clutching in the night
a man clutches it in the night, the only roof he has left,
a face pulling towards the ground, dirty beard and dimming eyes,
and an old dog that loves him so,
are sitting outside a laundromat. on the curb.
he tells me, he never, ever kills a bug on purpose.
he says he feels it when it happens. he says the tiniest lives are
the least remembered so he tries to mourn them well.