The sky doesn't know what it is yet, An irresolute wash scribbled over by Night things, something that scratches, An insect or bird, an itching of sound In the dense smudge of inkblots That by morning are trees. The starlit effusion is wiped off the canvas And the sky shakes awaiting the klaxon of sun Like the teenage boy in his roiling bedsheets Who doesn't quite know what day it is yet.