The cloud is trying to hold itself together, and I am trying to hold up the cloud. Heavy and tired, I look around. I drag myself across the rainbow, a quiet exhibit immediately forgotten in the question of distance, how many miles it is between here and anything, the sky a cliff all jump and floating, the miles just numbers hid between my breathing and the real light stumbling like transparent fists through my window. I want to grab the cloud and juice it down, cut it into smaller pieces then stuff it in a blender. The cloud is boneless. It’s getting closer, vibrating like a uvula in the handsome wind. I breathe evenly. For a gangster, I’m getting pretty good at this. It’s like breathing is a bank I’ve robbed so often I’ve been named its president. The responsibility soothes me. Orphans depend on my decisions. I look out the window. I walk into the white building.
15 The Paris-American
Christopher DeWeese is the author of The Black Forest (Octopus Books, 2012). His poems have appeared in Boston Review, jubilat, and Tin House. He teaches at Smith College.
