What's ideal isn't available to the current
landscape. The stroke of digital ink drags,
the sieve of drowsiness combined with the
strength of something apparently continuous.

When I look at the sky I admit that it isn't
a thing to be touched. All metaphor becomes
deliaisoned truth. Wishing something could be said
for this—now wrap that in something else:
“Wishing something could be said for this.”

This is nearly a copy of a line from a poem
by someone else, just as the cloud resembles
itself. However, I wouldn't dare call it a
copy. Tuck the sky behind your ear, I call,

Hoping to make homology of sky and rose.
What other conventional terms do you have
in your cart? I feel I should end right now.