so fast they sift
beneath the door.
I stuff the cracks
of the windows with poems
less to keep
the clouds away
as you within
the room: what man
would risk the pass
in clouds.
At noon they lift
above the pass.
Mid-August and the pass
white as the sun:
what are you to me
that I
anchor you
to clouds; that I
wish the clouds
would stay,
that the sun would not blow
like snow through my hair.