as frost on the shingles

as lost school form, crumpled under the table

as smudge on my glasses

as clouds like cotton balls, as the bit of blue peeking through

as nail in the spare tire

as dream in which I write a check to cover the damages

as grocery list, as $100 bill, as broken pencil with no eraser

as wet laundry, forgotten in the washer

as surgeon's scalpel, incision blooming behind me

not as hawk gliding through the dawn

no, not as dawn, indigo softening to gray

not as dead deer, head twisted in the gravel at the side of the road

but maybe as steam rising from sun-warmed shingles, roof dappled with shadow

maybe as white jet drawing a line across the sky, stitching clouds together