• Carly Feinman

Day 36- 10.22.20


On good days

the sky is the underside

of a whale,

smooth as gray beach stones.

On bad days

it's a mirrored elevator ceiling

and it plummets

like an amusement park ride

gone wrong.

Sometimes, the pale, marbled clouds

don't float as much as they trudge,

moving with effort, with muscle.

Other times, they scan across

that wide cerulean well

just like lips

parting to smile.

Do you know what I mean

when I say this?

I mean something like

optimism, something like

the feeling of winning,

like the sound of a door

swinging open to let in

fresh air.

In Patti Smith's "Birdland,"

she wails, child-like,

for the sky to take her up

to the belly of the ship.

On my best days, I know

just what she means.


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