it’s midday.
i empty the coffee grinds
from the press.
it’s too late now for
another cup.
i bring the
grinds to the compost;
walking through the grass
barefoot.
it is so humid
the lawn
feels damp underfoot.
i pause and look up,
shielding my eyes
from the sun.
above,
one thin wisp
of cloud.
it looks out of place.
can you see this?
wherever you are,
can you see this?
the curvature of the cloud
is so feminine
in shape;
voluptuous and round,
gesturing in both a crude
and shy way.
can you see this?
i am out of place;
here in the yard,
on the humidity soaked grass.
can you see me?
wherever you are,
can you see me?
i stand until
the cloud
melts away into blue,
a rich blue,
a humid blue.
wherever you are,
can you see me?