An Old Fence and a Low Cloud

This fence is more like a wall.
Its blocks are a sort of rust.
No one leans on it to talk.

The cloud, though, does look like wood,
No paint, not for a long time,
Just grey. No one talks like clouds,

Not here. No one’s here at all.
It’s tough to say why that is.
It’s hard to write in the voice

Of a world that is not us
And has no words that aren’t us.
It’s not the fence or the cloud

That care for a fence or clouds.
It’s us. It’s a shame. From cloud
To fence the link is light rain.