alaskan cloud streets


of snow creases with every light wing you
saw my broken morning sun; an endless
summer shaft refracting a warm front and
bludgeoned by decoration seldom fall.
Echo of the good gamble, fertile of
layered appearance sculpted, a sweetness,
lenticular clouds like something dormant –
fall rate absolutely, weather sure seems
slack. Playing an abiding portion you,
embryonic, draped like a blanket and –
repeat, speak – maybe I’ll take a shine to
your moral chorus: the purple colour,
a stream of inconsequent concern so
we talked, you and I, conveying the sky
of signs, an instant silence and our voice
swallowed in a June morning, nacreous
in the night shining sky between glass rings
garbanzo colour; pendulous from trees.


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