stirring up clouds

I just don’t get it my friends, it just doesn’t
make any sense in the thin air between

my ears, why say one token of cerulean silk
my friends, why say it and mean there is

no grain of sand in your pocket,
should I care with a mine of gold in the cellar

and a stack of dirt so high
I would bury this town up to the ears

with only a field of lashes to stir up clouds,
but here I sit waiting for the single grain

wishing my dirt upon your shoulders
too dense to carry from dark places

never meant for tall voices, scratching
at my heel, my feet, my friends
such a sound.