Poetry Outdoors

Skying
Birds on my chest. Sky
like a face about to break
bad news. Wordless drifting
on a stream of unconscious
thought. incomprehensible
texture of an old damp coat.
Inside, lights forget their own
off-switches, lackadaisically
senseless, produce
a sweet halogen glare.
Replace the sun with the un-sun. Constable
used to observe the wet weather.
tracing the shape of the clouds,
called it skying. I can’t look up anymore.