reader

as if chopping carrots
crisp, fresh
his teeth bite down
awful sounds
and nails break off
at the quick
almost too short
almost too painful

his hands are calloused
rough and tattered
from both work and play
but mostly from
the wood he commands
with his palms curled around

it's not that
every time you see the sky
you think of him
but really
every time you see his eyes
you think of the sky

the air moves with him
and not around him
as if he carries it with him
in a jar

movements quick
like a shutter released
and speech that tumbles
tongue over teeth
sharp, yet melted together

at bus stops or train stations
he is who you see alone
daydreaming up another life
and whispering to the clouds