Cloud Traffic Slides

Cloud traffic slides
on bands of sky.
House in shadow,
then light.
Lifting and falling
on waves.
Silent jolt into
close darkness.
Camera-shake of
great footstep;
head reading page
over your shoulder.
A sort of mist….

Into musical rescue
and promise:
snow-blind.
Shiny distances
lean in.
Fifty squeaky kisses,
rushed and endless,
along your cheek’s
ticklish fringes.
There are no witnesses,
just the one alive.

That leaf-green,
that sky-blue.
That wind-bob,
that rustle. That
air on window like rain–
they have you surrounded.
No need to move;
you’ve met.

Clicks of insects
and ankles.
Sounds slip, practiced,
through windows.
They wander rooms.
You communicate
by degrees,
learning with whom.

Again, in the kitchen,
that igniter snaps
its fingers at
the gas.
Random increments
ticking past.

Eventually,
it’s time to sleep,
so you try.
But stay up listening.
All night, too,
cloud traffic slips by.

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