What kind of cloud is that? our traveling
companion asked, peering at the bobbled

masses suspended like teats on the underside
of a thunderstorm, like follicles of cream—

And if snow or rain fell now,
tilting back our heads

would we most clearly resemble
our ongoing hunger, would we open

and open as in that first instinctive
prising-then-latching, that gasping

for breath between the beginning
and the rest of the curving track—


In response to Via Negativa: Impediment.

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