one sky is a measure, grown smaller by the city and the sitting in a stillnessurrounded by motions of metal among masses married to the illness they are marred by, one they’ve carried into higher and higherises—but clouds are not brought closer on by climbing stairs in squares. the horizon they’d encounter, their enframingrid disguises.
a pride of lions, a castle of clouds, an exaltation of larks; ways to name a collective always bear their callers’ mental marks. but a sky is a measure, another class of abstraction, susceptible (unlike prides and murders) to [tu]multiplication and its echo, [dif]fraction.
two skies fit, not sidebyside, but layered deep on deep. (they’re most often seen this way before what comes before a sleep.) so doubled, skies disclose a ceiling covered by the clouds of one; twogether we scry past them to the stars, or moons, or suns.
loudly comes a storm, clouding dark and sudden; clouds walk in the wind. we find our skies, and ourselves, turned the opposite of twinned as we follow a flitting, flashing eye to a fragment of cloud-crowded, colorless sky through a crack in the pavement, a puddle passing by.
and when these pass (whether bitterlysweet or goodridd[l]ed) we remember: this measure’s made for music, and we meet its movements mostly from our middles. stormy or shy, it is still the same sky (as it remains the same ocean, throughout all its waves), and the breadth of its borders depends only on motion. one sky can be only as big as one braves.