31 January 2021

Philip Kuepper

The sky hung, a dropcloth,
of washed blue silk,
to a stage positively minus of props,
so that when two clouds appeared,
shaped like boats with oars,
the cloud oars so thin
they kept disappearing and reappearing,
it appeared as though they were rowing the air
by two rowers invisible to me, rowers
I could not say were only imaginary.
For who was I to think they didn’t exist
simply because I could not see them?

(24 January 2021)