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Skies Bill Tremblay
How we the blue bowl invert except for one white streak like an
Man with a Mohawk hung from a chandelier a glass to see through the sky changes again in a busy day makes us tilt up our noses to know they’re burning blood in greeley today again adroit adrift as reflex relax it’s only the neighbors without even shutting off our machines infernal we say and spit, a knowing we agree on for once, though the sky as a forecast for all who can read its stretch marks is a herringbone of contention like those plastered over the plains with great tattooed faces praising the sun, moon and other robins of Fate smiling over our fevers, skies whip-sawed by concrete images that make us want to test ourselves against their gale force wills, grave skies, skies that tilt like sentinels asleep on their feet, skies that move, skies that roar, skies that witness our secret drives though we do not miss our home fields
                  If the robins are neither silent nor do they leave a trace except as after-poems in slates philosophers used to call innocence, something’s in the sky, air, wind, we say, and in January comes the Chinook with his warm filed teeth from Nevada by way of Micronesia to gnaw the selvages of snowcrust we know the skies the same way we know we’re alive, by the flying debris, from the prick, the quick from the ghostly split, wating more and beyond that blue is black and the glitter strewn shawls and shoals beyond the shrouds we know, wan, blanched by hints we know it all already and blot dawn’s
                  gold out window mingles smells of coffee, the color we hope is hope, our suns launched into skies of their days, high thin skies we barely note as they drive their saxophones to work and get hitched under, the sky with a sun which is the name of one possible life and the idea we know as we live it, asking What is not the sky or in or of it—the dust of deceased volcanoes, flecks of radiated skin, strontium mites, neutrino mines glowing in commerce city, Cro Magnon angels, skies we see, skies we recall, skies we have inside, skies gone missing, skies on milk cartons, skies in the eyes of lost girls high in the cabs of eighteen-wheelers cruising through Wheeling’s October with yellow red maple hems and kids shushing through dry paper skins of God, skies that promise, skies that threatent like angry nuns, like arguments that end with thunder, and a woman bolting from a table, skies that feel like blushes at first.