Today the clouds are real.
The imagination is freed.
When the mind's not compelled to disclose
It can follow what floats above it,
The uncanny gray and white shapes
As externalization of thoughts
Too radiant to contain.
They weigh down from the sky
To fill us with width
Like everything good and familiar,
But are unrecognized
Even as our own consciousness,
They are ceded to God
Or the fortuitous machinery of the heavens
As if the feelings inspired
By its developing pink
Are less of a response
Than the pink itself,
The quality of feeling
Captured for what? Our eyes?
Another day we fail to know ourselves
Descends into dark
Though we've come somewhat closer now,
Enough to earn another one tomorrow,
And the glow of unaccountable lavender
That persists in the slow October sunsets
Shows what we otherwise would never see;
It would be too sad for our sense of separation
To look at, what we could only,
Like our flaws and cracks, pass over,
A quality of mercy
For having pursued
The endless to its end,
With nothing but a glint
As compensation.
It disappears to gray
As if the mere hue gave too much away.
What comes to fill encroaching darkness:
All the figures that are seen,
Who don't exist.
