New Year's Transformers
published in Jivin' Ladybug
air from air. It resembles a mouth,
an opening. Inhale.
Not really a mouth, but there are hands
stitching together a summer cloud
in a sky of frayed ends.
Not really hands, not a sky, either.
Scents carried in the air weigh nothing.
All you can touch
contains a cosmos of memories.
There is not here. Now is not
It can hear you talking,
although you only mouth the words:
it can pick up anything
and bear it along
up, up, and away: all those messages from elsewhere
and arriving and only passing through.