The Cloud
pitiable in its fluff, the cloud
failed to find release,
just hung there,
dense with unseen yet obvious emotion.
its seamless wallpaper of snail flesh,
deliberate and obstinate as
tectonic plates, inched and
inched and inched until
it became what happens to a body of water
which holds onto a lie so tightly
that it rises up, phantom grey,
to inform a tragic statue.
yes,
belly full of electric lust,
frustrated in a wallow of
merciless gravity, the cloud moaned
without a sound, ignored
by lawn after manicured lawn,
patio squared against patio,
and all the grills searing flesh
in barbecued lines.
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