I was gleaning words to sew the sky when she pointed to the brown bag of the sun like a gameshow hostess, hands flat and inviting; the blueness remained open and jealous; staccato clouds awled the twilight.
I was sowing words into the sky. My Ford Fiesta chugged furrows of exhaust out of her azure field. On my porch, I downloaded the OED to plant glottal stops and liquid nasals, to water with uvular fricatives, and harvest with sharp labials, but honestly, I got distracted and the Ford Fiesta kept flooding the sky and the words fell out of my lap (I’d gathered them in the hem of my t-shirt). I would like to say she saved me, then, but once her sentence-long eyes left for the day, they did not return until night. And by the time the light had gone, the words had spilled all over the lime-green grass.
Eventually, the blueness takes to words so she can make ends meet. All I can say to her, all I can think, is reflected in the periodic cloud, or in the cumulative effect of light and shadow on grass. Everything passes from black-and-white to Kodacolor and back like in old Russian sci-fi films. We make paragraphs this way and lines and epics. She on me and me juicing the grass with my back, or belly. This is how we have sewn ourselves together—cloudshine, language, awl.