The Wind That Believes in Clouds

The taillights set
blurry and red like the sun
but, like the moon, into dawn.

Your face requests
you roll a window down—
and the first breath
of blue-pink air
is like through an ice-bong,

inventing a day that’s some
undisclosed percentage
pure imagination,

and the rest real
ancient.

The commute fades into downtown.
Metal frames glow orange
and grow colder inside.

On a screen in your palm,
the view from satellites:
the never-ending clouds again.
Their lives without skins.
Blipping around.

Even when we stop pretending,
who are we but the wind
that believes in them?

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