This is a poem.
It's called Celestial Overseers.
And I think it's about clouds, I mean.
Something well, you know, something above.
I think it started being about clouds,
maybe looking down and the idea of something up there,
you know, jotting down following all your activities.
Do they count my steps meticulously?
Have they reached the figure of many zeros separated by commas?
Could I have walked already to the nearest star?
Recall for me please one of my first steps.
I want a suit I was wearing that day pressed.
I want my mother again to hold my hand tightly.
That must be our grandmother there in the open coffin.
Her hands are chopped from so much scrubbing the floor
we walk on in black shoes.
The three little steps I then took
so that I may be lifted up to kiss her.
And the three equally tiny ones to get back.
Do they still resound at ever receding magnitudes?
Could that dog sitting Sphinx-like at the seashore
hear my new shoes squeaking and squeaking
on the other side of the world?