This is a revision of a poem I posted a while ago. Not a savage reconstruction, but I've done some cleaning up, some slicing. I hope you like it.
Water Above, Water Below
Every cloud except the towering cumulonimbus
is flirty and inconstant. Watch them drift.
Lie down in a warm field with a blanket
or jacket. Have some wine with you
or coffee in a thermos or the memories of childhood
when your parents sent you out with a hoe,
a bike or a kite. All are good.
Imagine the clouds are young gods without responsibilities.
They have blown themselves here for amusement.
In one game, they surround airplanes
so that children will cry when they can’t see.
They long ago gave up on birds and their navigation
but they still like to chill cardinals that fly too high.
Cirrus, cumulus, stratus: they each play fair.
You really should pour yourself another glass.
Watch the clouds play chase and do impressions
that are poor because they are so far above rabbits,
ducks, dogs. Genitalia is almost always invisible to them.
The moon comes to color the clouds like old platinum
and the insect sounds change. Fires appear.
The field breathes cool moisture over you,
so pick up your blanket, walk down from the sky.
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