is oso stone-like in its ghostly stillness
and firmness—the sky scrapers cannot cut
this floating sheet of rock.
the wind knows no boundaries: it blusters
over the land and chips our faces
raw—but even it cannot budge
the sky's fortress walls.
maybe someone hopped the Pearly Gates
without invitation, and God
(being stubborn like He is)
erected this petrified Heaven
to keep the undesirables out;
or maybe Apollo could not ride today
because his axel broke
or his horse fell ill—so he beckoned Medusa
to turn her head upward
so no one could see his failure.
all i know is the sunlight is
the dead light beam of this unpretty sky.