Poem

The clouds ache bleakly
and when they can manage it 
crush someone's head in
without a sound of anger.

This is a brutal mystery.


We meet in the streets
with our hands in our pockets
and snarl guiltily at each other
as if we had flayed a cloud
or two in our salad days.


Lots of things do blame us;
and in moments when I forget
how cruel we really should be
I often have to bite my tongue
to keep from being guilty.

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