Ellen A. Wilkin

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Clouds

They form into ships sailing
the blue-bright sea,
then dissolve to fragments of cotton batting
tumbling out of a worn pillow.

I patch them back together into
a boar running,
Europe –
with Italy,
the boot,
at the bottom.

They keep moving, shaping,
seeking form –
something more, something
they love enough to make solid.

I wait.

— Ellen A. Wilkin