Staring up at the sky,
He thinks of Nothing.
And Nothing thinks of him,
Just as he thinks of it.

And the sky stares back while being stared at,
By nothing.
The nothing that writhes,
That cries , that sings,
That seethes under the sun with wide eyes.

He calls it something like Nostalgia,
A Rembrandt that’s in a dream,
That runs when he walks, leaves when he wakes,
Which he talks about to himself,
And he hates.

It takes the hours and demands the sky,
So now he lays in a stranger’s yard,
So now he lays in the sky, staring down,
Wide-eyed.

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