Because of the clouds, I like flying.
Plains of clouds, mountains.
This plane rose until it was
just above the cover.
You can’t do that in a Cessna.
The clouds dune, eddy.
They make a quilt, one that’s gotten
too much use, so that
finest soft cotton purges through.
I see x’s and o’s out there,
the signs of love at the end of a letter,
a child’s simple game.
This is the blue sky,
this is the moon.
Ponds of clouds, with their own ripples.
Cumulus, stratus, cirrus,
alto, undulatus, lenticularis.
Study the names of indifferent white.
They know how to be flat
because they listen to the air,
to the light, to the absence of heat.
I see the shapes of the 50 greatest states,
all in one big cluster, like grapes,
or like grade schoolers
posing for their picture in the yearbook.
Let me have you on the end of a wand,
so I can stick you in my ear
to wipe away the dirt.
Furrows, folds of the brain.
Gray matter capable of all,
but no reason.
Breasts without nipples,
curves only a tongue can trace.
From here to the sun,