A vague
time of day,
air bright
and insistent,
but easily shadowed
by rain
riding in
as if on
great wings.
The sky
is a visitor
from years back
and what it
cares about
will not have
changed.
Old eyes
see it new,
its duplicate
dog-eared
by memory.
In a climate
kind to roses
the stems grow
from glass,
from bone,
from sand blown
porcelain smooth.
A cloud like cream
against the reindeer
sky, the offstage
storm a wall
of anti-light
devouring the horizon
from left paren
to right’s splayed
thesis.
Its greed extends
to thunder.