Kyle Booten


A fish for clouds, if fish
are made of Tyvek sheets.
A fish for clouds, if fish
form fleets.

No place as gray as there,
and no gray quite as white.
No room so wall-less and
otherwise spare.

Joints of geometry,
colors bright for no one,
about two rungs closer to
the sun.


We'll need a safe blade; rope;
hammock; a skein; a canteen
for drinking weather;
a weather vane.

Cannons are too heavy
and books a bit too light
to take aboard. Trade them
for flight.

But we'll need matches; stars
are not our fissionary guides.
They have to fret about
their own lives.


The point of aloneness
is doubleness. Considered
from nowhere, everything
is at rest.

The wings droop like tents.
Though they have form,
they aren't addicted
to such sense.

These airstream fish don't breed,
and why would they? Life
loves the living, not
the seed.

The wingspan is a bridge.
What good is it otherwise?
Those who aren't fooled will
never rise.