I see a white hare, it’s tuft floating there
Traversing over blues. Can I have it?
There’s a goose chased by dragon in the sky.
Oh wait! Is this season duck or rabbit?

Fuzzy shapes they make. Of muffin. Of cake.
A bowl. Some noodles! Chopsticks! Artichoke?
Look! A perfect one—encircling the Sun.
Gods must be skilled in exhaling the smoke.

A dark one looms there. It’s far. I’m prepared
To name any shape that comes on blue screen.
This game keeps me sane while waiting for rain
To wash all the blood and mess I am in.

Note: The genesis of this poem can be traced back to a weekend where I did nothing but lie on my bed and watch clouds drift by through a window. I wasn't involved in any accident in real life. —S.B. (30.09.2020)