What is the sky?

A week later

I reply: I don’t know

why don’t you ask

your only friend.

Another week passes.

He doesn’t call.

He must be up to something,

he must know

what the hell it is.

I look at my bankbook,

it’s forty-seven below.

Can you give me a clue?

I blurt at him.

Those few shining masterpieces

are lost, electric piercing

bouquets

lost in a fantastic fire.

What is the sky?

What is the sky.

The sky is a door,

a very small door

that opens for an inchworm

an inch above his rock,

and keeps his heart from flying off.