This poem will say nothing. "Clouds snowed in the yard," and I record it here, for reasons unknown even to myself. The clouds have wine-dark pelts, but that’s nothing new: skies are hard to find new lines about. Poets fear the cliché, try to enjamb around it – won’t help. What is the jaggy cumulus mouthing in the upper distance? Coagulating lard, the snow meets salt, goes gray. Look up, peer into that distance: skullish hills melt, discolor into the hue of bruise or welt, as if even the earth self-flagellates, regards this day with self-loathing. I’ll change gears: turned skyward like a telescope, this poem said nothing.