I really like those clouds*
is what i tell my mom in the car going down the hill into garland- ***** grimy stained,
city of which I semi-love mostly hate.
They were long strips of cotton, the underbelly of a zebra,
and- don't tell- but they reminded me of you.
Her response, which ones? and then
I wonder what they mean.
                      I wonder what we mean
is how I first respond in my head, but don't worry,
i correct myself.
and then a wave of nauseating annoyance embraces my body and I become so sick of the words "what it means" that I want to sprout wings and fly home.
But we keep going further and further down the hill, we are in garland,
when she redeems herself:
it looks like the sea, they are the islands in an ocean of sky.
I like the answer, and so I tell my wings, and my hopes, not to grow.