[a one-act play in prose poems]
the audience is asked to bring their own mattresses – the theater is flatter without chairs – the audience pat their mattresses where they can – the stage is made in the middle – the woman in the middle of the stage ignores the audience – the world above them is the world above them – every bold title is a type of cloud shouted from the sky – the ten types of clouds, in cardboard, appear near the rafters – the woman in the middle speaks to what she sees
A pipe that bubbles. Pipes like bullets. Middle floor. White. Heap-like. A stack, as they say. Those opening Homer clouds. Blonde hair. Rough tufts of wool. Fish scales. Sailboats. Fishing. It looks like fishing.
Mid-height. White or yellow-white. Hot boxing a Kia Optima. Thickened in flat. In layers by law. Like a blanket. The blue sky is thankless. It’s empty. Our dim sun’s become a lit disk. Not a shadow to attempt to touch.
Kaleidoscopic cotton. High-height personality. Whitegray. Available in patched batches. Cloudlets made into ice cubes. These clouds are like most clouds. It won’t be long.
I’m grateful for the halo glow. The stars have purpose. Higher rates. Look, it’s smart. It’s see-through. Wispy in the wild. In thickets. Like Jupiter’s ring, its beam surrounds the sun. And also the moon.
It was dad’s head, dancing around. Grandfather’s highway hair, daring to become ribbon. Skytall. White. That’s okay. T h e kids enlist feathers. Here, the bewildered sun. Warm with blue sky. Such thin relief. Many storms are huge.
Low. But also loud. Like a herd of cattle. Like dark, dark dust. Dense. Shut up. Say it like it’s a wall of bats. Like a faulty tower. The payment is made in thunder. Soon it will clear. Like a mountain.
An adaptation on how worms and ducks take up space. Low. White. Fluffy. Forty of them. Kitten translates to cauliflower. It’s a nice day. That one is like a hat. And that one is a turtle. And this is what we say.
A bedsheet thrown over the sprinkler. A dark gray face with dark black hair. Large enough puffs to get rid of the sun. To succumb to the bedding on the sofa. Water is forever. Enjoy the snow.
Jumping from chimney to chimney. Get out of the orange way of the deer. Low. 41 this time. 42. The atmosphere is sometimes weak. It gets sick. It’s a little busy with blue sky. Less than stressful. Between the clouds, it’s always been cloudy. This information should be made available.
And the old man paints his white house. And the old man paints his white house gray. The sky applauds and falls down featureless. It’s God’s fog up top. The fog that made the moon explode. The sky is covered. It’s like the back of a painting.
she walks off stage – the clouds appear at once – the clouds are soundproof – the audience too – the same woman in a different dress re-enters the stage – she holds a postcard the size of a corkboard and reads
thank you for your interest in measuring the sky – when you see a scarf, when you see a trailer, the clouds will darken – when you find yourself, ask yourself: can I reach it with a ladder? – or do I just need to weave?