I am sure he’ll return,

the slender milkman from a dream,

who I encountered in a place I cant remember,

…..but I did this time.

Even with my pockets full of sand,

or milk.

I saw him walk across the street,

but not as my sister.

His posture was soft and slightly curled, like a dogs ear,

wispy, like a leaf blowing behind passing cars.

but still not as my sister.

Behind all those cars,

behind all my thoughts,

behind my ears, even.

Headlong into the guardrail, headlight’s off so to not disturb the insects,

with the sun on my shoulders,

barely peeking over the trees,

so not to disturb the insects.

I can feel it staring at me still, and I’m left treading water,

or milk.

The sun devoured the headlights and next it will devour me, and the milkman,

and the insects,

and my sister, notwithstanding,

….and I am still sorry.

Those same trees, from so long ago,

from when we were kids,

from when we were clouds,

nearly ablaze now //

are leaning to the point of almost falling.

They probably wont, though,

nearly falling stars now //

even if that milkman said he’d return eventually,

he probably wont.