[Name Removed] says the clouds are burning a hole in his jacket.
I wish we had less to burn every day. There’s a russet-colored
splotch near the middle of the bay that looks like the tip of a
gigantic brown washable marker felled from the sky (as if
by magic, I think). See it? he asks pointing vaguely at
Treasure Island. I put my glasses on to see it better.
Yes, that works, but I can’t think of any words.
Another cloud opens its mouth to eat us.
[Name Removed]’s not afraid of death.
Toward the giant magic marker a gray
boat inches, like a shuttle about
to dock at a space station.
