Potato Sprout

Polymer clouds.
Who fluffed them so haphazardly
Like my dream-laden pillow
As dawn hunts a crevice?
I scratch my hair,
The skins of tin-foiled yams.
Eggs will be children.
They will catch dewdrops
On their fingers and
Come to sparkle with longing.
There is so much and so little
To do. We shake the tired
Out of each other’s eyes, then
We shake it back in.

Jake Weiss