Bluesky

The book tells me the cloud is in everything—yesterday’s thunderhead in today’s tea,this morning’s fog in the museum walls,the plume of my breath in the rattlesnakecoiling around a painted peace lily. Look,my friend says, and the framed stalk of cornmoves me to awe. I am never not in lovewith the world and its yellows. The book istrying to teach me how to see bubblesglistening in their unicorn purples, floatingunpopped, rendered nearly permanent in paint.I study a spirit bird made of glass, and my friendsurprises me with her diagnosis. Crows fly throughthe window in my chest. The book would sayher blood cancer is also a cloud, but today I can’tbear the sky and its gentle scholarship of hope.I stay with the goldenrod shocking the sculptureof Kansas grasses like a terrestrial memoryof stars. I let myself grieve as hard as the blackdoor nailed to the wall titled Night Sun. Yes,it must be true. My friend’s stunning heart wasonce rain. Twilight’s navy hem falls on the horizonand bends the wheat over the mummied field.Nothing is unhaunted, which means nothingis alone. A storm gathers like angels crowdingthe earth to see the end beginning here.I love you, I say into the tomb of air between usand close my eyes so I won’t see the clouds.