Dampness.
The sky is clear, as if the gods in charge
spent the whole night polishing it.
Nevertheless a wandering cloud I had seen yesterday
is seeking refuge in the poem.
It shut the door, drew the curtains,
and claimed that it was a cocoon.
There is a river in my womb.
It will flap its wings soon, fly for a few seconds,
then they will turn into water, it said.
What will I be left with?
I asked selfishly.
It sighed and said, a poem, wet with the memory of water.
And then it disappeared.