White clouds the sky with her 


lucid virulent plumes


it is morning and we


rise, stand, bloom


a mass of torn shirts and sweaty legs


gleaming like the teeth of orange


who breaks into blaring streaks at dawn 


then wanders, drooling red, mumbling at the wind



and to think I have ever seen grace


on a sunny day in Reno



I watch through the window for awhile


thinking white must be the devil’s color



I watch for awhile because If I were god I wouldn’t do it this way I wouldn’t


hide all my toys behind blurred airy sheets or leave myself 


all-powerful yet still searching for clarity 


in white eyes white limbs white tongues




clouds, no I 


would paint them blue 


so I could see the truth, or at least fool myself into believing


that humans don’t exist


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