The cloud of word is cloud.
The color of word is white
clean pure ominous. The wind
so away —
Pigeon feathers in the parking lot.
Blue varieties.
A new civilization. A blue
seagull across the window.
The statue, bronze and greening, the hand
stretches up at the ceiling, the world
moss metal inside.
The waters flow past the prophet’s footprint.
The view tonight is so rare.
Andrew Wessels has lived in Houston, Cambridge, and Las Vegas. Currently, he splits his time between Istanbul and Los Angeles. His poems, translations, and collaborations can recently be found in or are forthcoming from VOLT, Fence, Colorado Review, The Journal, Washington Square Review, Grist, Handsome, Fact-Simile, and 580 Split. He edits The Offending Adam.
