The roofers pry open the flat
part of the roof, looking
for water damage, soft
beams underneath, open
seams through which the wind
shudders. Everyone longs for
a canopy to keep out rain,
shade the color of cool
afternoons. Ours is a bed
or a page open to the scrutiny
of the sky, the indecipherable
handwriting of birds. Not being
horizonless, it marks off the space
where we live out some of our days.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
