Smell The Clouds Feet Poem by gregory collins

Smell the clouds feet, a dingy waiting room for rain.
A useless pasttime. Catch snowflakes in your head,

the same day comes every day of the year. Nothing
is different. Not even the dream ready to rot, or the

scar of wind swept hearts. But joy and suffering peek
across the wire netting of our souls. They are looking

for an inmate that uses the nightengale's songs to
rustle against the stars on the rooftop of a church;

Where the Milky Way reminds me of my sister: A
thornbush in your eyes as tender as a grassblade,

and the moon is transplanted near the empty crown
of dusk, like i tiptoe skyward mirrored in the water,

Where like a sad memory, i can stand on a single
breath of the wind. i really can hear the heart on fire

and hug anything that has burned down and suddenly
forever. As suddenly the river runs, doomed to vanish quietly,

poetry a walk across the ocean, but not the sky