if i recall

on the rooftop
the sky was a mottled sheet
of rough-grade sand paper
made with pieces of what looked like everything
as it scraped down against the steeples
rounding off the scissored tips before
poking clear through to the other side,
and unwieldy things began to tumble out of it,
oven-shaped and leaky wheelbarrows
of condensed thoughts and clouds
caught up in the tangled blankets, splashing
down into the tolerant, surrounding waters
and every window was a small television
into different people’s lives, people
slouching inward, watching smaller televisions
broadcast news of weather systems shrugging
like pale rocks sulking just below
the clear ceiling of the tide.