New Year's Transformers

published in Jivin' Ladybug

divides

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

the time.

 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

arriving

and arriving and only passing through.