clouds drift in leonine fever,
laced with ennui and tinsel,
doomed to stalk the hauteur of a perfect plane.
their scavenge seems hopeless,
as dismantled as the motives of pterodactyls,
or glassy, strewn toadfish
with swishing gills and fluid ribs.
the drifts, they are road signs
scattered in a lust-drained aftermath,
only hints of lurid pagan beasts,
the fire grips them just before night,
renewing their bedlam,
until they sink once again,
no longer ebullient,
when anchored to a guttering horizon.