3/30 every time a clock is built

Behind every cloud, the sky is always the same.
The sun is always out, so space dust vacations
inside caves on comets, with darkness a most
sought after souvenir. By now so much has been
brought back that stars have to push their light
through space with sewing needles, weaving
a blanket to keep us warm.

Hearing what our sun is saying takes longer now.
We sunburn because the sun only sees our oceans’ obedience
after almost ten minutes of orders and feels it best
to discipline us like children.

Behind every cloud there are air molecules starving for attention.
The oceans feel the suns thread and in response weave a second
layer of themselves, reminding us
they too are made of string. But the air of our breath is a jealous
lover and never misses a chance to tell any new concubine like fabric,
especially one as opaque and doleful as cloud, that gravity
has its way with all in time.
And we feel their ambitious hearts unraveling in our gutters,

Because below every cloud, there is a cell: a city,
a household, a skin suit.
And the inside of every membrane
is always the same. Some cog
of a greater machine believing in billboards
for advance from servitude, unknowing
that even the sun is housekeeper
for a body less automatic.