The individual clouds
on a most cloudy morning
began speaking to each other
not very loud
but loud enough for me
to hear and shake
my head at in a rite
resembling trepidation:
What does this mean
meaninglessness?
How do you exist
existentially?
How do you use words
wordlessly?
How do you perfect
perfection?
Cloud after cloud
question after question
I caught underneath
the celestial interrogation.
Am I supposed to answer
or smile knowingly
or run for cover
before the clouds
grow angrier
with the gods?
Not a favorable morning
for questions or answers
so I’ll hide behind
a huge oak tree
and perhaps
ask its advice
about its world
of wordlessness.
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