There are poems_x000D_ that are never written,_x000D_ that simply move across_x000D_ the mind_x000D_ like skywriting_x000D_ on a still day:_x000D_ slowly the first word_x000D_ drifts west,_x000D_ the last letters dissolve_x000D_ on the tongue,_x000D_ and what is left _x000D_ is the pure blue_x000D_ of insight, without cloud_x000D_ or comfort.