Clod

Clod

Kernel of dirt. How is this the namesake
for cloud, who looks into the sky

and sees the insignificance of earth,
makes the thought a thing by saying it

while another human ear is near enough
to hear. So much about a place

is unremarkable enough that we
do not speak of it, the sheen of water

that allows us, mostly, to see within
and above it, as skin shows us

the desire or rage inside by
reddening. That’s not a puddle, says

someone, that’s a pond. My word,
says his companion, that’s no

pond, it’s a lake, and they agree,
and then they leave, and never return.