WEBVTT

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Dampness.

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The sky is clear, as
if the gods in charge

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spent the whole
night polishing it.

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Nevertheless a wandering
cloud I had seen yesterday

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is seeking refuge in the poem.

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It shut the door,
drew the curtains,

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and claimed that
it was a cocoon.

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There is a river in my womb.

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It will flap its wings
soon, fly for a few seconds,

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then they will turn
into water, it said.

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What will I be left with?

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I asked selfishly.

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It sighed and said, a poem,
wet with the memory of water.

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And then it disappeared.