In a clear box, the nails arrive
already painted a matte light blue
behind clouds. I don’t need to tell you
the clouds are white.
Their round blubbery backs
rise and briefly sail
—a veritable pod of five or six
per nail.
I prefer my own glue.
It has a brush.
I check each finger for a pulse, and soon,
when I stretch
I’m mindful that
another quarter inch
of the wind above and the infinite
below appears within reach.
Are you a poet like me,
or is your love affair
with the sky already over?
It’s not clear,
it’s breathtakingly blue,
the sky. You told me to avoid that word
but sometimes one
will still slip through.