in safe places

the grey clouds up there are drones 
& i know this because just yesterday 
instead of rain, i opened my mouth & caught
a bullet shell. like the tooth of a metal dinosaur.
i took the object out to inspect & i pushed
it into a patch of dirt. you never know what
it's going to rain anymore. sure there's
a lot of people who count on water but
what if it's thumb tacks-- what if it's
weaponry-- what if it's an open fire--
a barrage. i know nothing about drones
other than that their faces are blank
& their pilots live in safe places.
there are safe pilots moving these clouds
so i wave a them to let them know
i'm a human & i'm down here wishing
that if i'm going to die today that maybe
i could have gotten more sleep. a drop
here a drop there. red. the drones/clouds
leaked blood & a fragment fell on my
open hand. catching blood like minnows
as it wriggles from the sky. no one believes
me though when i explain that clearly 
the clouds are drones. actually, it's not
that they don't believe me it's more
that they love the clouds & don't want
to know anything new about them. they point
& say no not that cloud at least & i say
yes even that cloud. how can you trust
a landscape to not be man made? when i was
small i think the clouds were real clouds.
i think i might have stepped onto one 
just once in a thick fog that ate the whole town.
i opened my fingers wide like a frog's palm
to touch the cloud-- to try to scoop it
up in palmfuls to take back inside with me.
yes, trust me i know a cloud when i see one
& these aren't clouds. no anymore.
will they hurt us? i guess the real question
is how much will they hurt us? i watch
a neighbor boy outside who names the clouds
after distant family members. i want to
tell him to stop naming drones but 
i want to believe like he does that
the clouds are buzzing because there 
are insects nearby & not because
they are mechanisms. in my house
i cloud the blinds. i pretend i live
in a calm place where there are no bullets 
none at all. i eat an apple & find a 
metal shell inside. i spit the artillery 
out into the sink. sometimes though
yes sometimes i wake up & i look outside
& i forget where we are & i see the clouds
as just clouds & i make animals of them
& i think of the fog thick enough
to grasp a handful of.