diane, a letter.

Variations in gray hovering


over
a building that is only
charcoal in color.

Similar clouds,
clouds again. How

can they hover.
Do you see
any strings?

As if she pieced together

the world she was
thrown into.

These clouds a bit lighter,
yet still
making the scene. The children
wear homemade masks,

power in the stance.

Look up. Look up.

A woman in a mask drags a man,
come here,
as if away from


the forest. The fire eater, the child
in the nightgown,
she saw her clouds above them too.

A whisk above their heads,
ready to beat down
a fine milky
substance.

To the couple on the pier,

the clouds mean nothing. The clouds linger

somewhere at their backs, waiting
for the wind to push

a little bit faster.

It all ran together,
hiding behind

machines. Hiding behind
the clouds
was what

kept her dying,

kept her on the phone
hellopleaseansweriveneverlearnedtobealone.



"I see something that seems wonderful; I see the divineness in ordinary things." - Nov 28, 1939, Diane Arbus in a paper on Plato during her senior year of college.