At dusk, I hook lines to clouds,
Then let the words haul me up.
Not my words, but they don’t mind.
I’m more theirs than they are mine.
They drag; I drift. We float by.
Old poems lie like square fields, ripe
With lines of grain, gold and green,
I can’t quite read from this height
Of so much time. Strange but fine,
Light fades and dark sails on by.
