simple sky

Allow us simple unscientific sky.

Who wants to live beneath information,
To lay in fields among nipping night
And hear the descriptions of chemical nomenclatures
Echoing within starlight the statistic’s rate
Of miles per second, or to feel in breath
The patterns of nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon dioxide
Predicted by measured descriptions counting
Off new numbers on each numbered day?

Our lives are numbered enough
For us to not breathe blue.
The distance between allotments and bills
Are astronomical enough in cycles
For us not to know the black holes
Of the human mind. Tell us
Instead that gravity is love,
That we are held to the earth
As though by a lover
Until we slip away into her embrace
To be wed in earth forever
With the sky arched as a forest bough
Blooming with the flowers of silk clouds
That mean only rain or thunder,
That mean nothing molested by a number,
That mean ‘always’ and ‘forever’
In sky and light, in night,
In sunset leaving it’s pink embers.

Sick of the yellow moon,
Its firefly light ignored by drunkards.
Mention the moon and you become a fool.

I am a fool, constantly and ever stupid,
Attempting at the wonder of a mere moon
Or the sublimity of quiet clouds as
They pass between astronomical distances
With only the help of a little wind
On a cold night. You were my little
Wind, and I the fool, large and ugly
As the everyday.

And now our small musics.
Passing in store aisles or a little
Comment at a restaurant, you who
I recognize in all women remain
Too kind. This jazz in the hospital,
The flowers at the prison, your
Little lips. How your beauty
Thinks of everything but ‘beauty,”
How your lips cautioned mine
Against hate.

Too traveled now, the two of us,
To know the old phone numbers.
Too traveled now, the world among us,
To ring like bells for the limit of our old youth.

Sometimes I am in some times like times some
razor clock hand slit like dying farm birds
and other times I could but speak
of the cloud's shadow speech concerning
other times.

It is too late for pretext,
you leave your reading clothes
where they're donated to the war.
The great weak widows frail in house
and desperate in home will rise
to collect the garments of your luxury
just as the policemen came
and beat your grandmother with a hose.
Your context is a foot bloodying
your magazine rack, your meaning
just lost in tragic circumspect traveling
to the safe parts of the world
known as insane asylums by the dangerous.

Sometimes, other times.

In other times, sometimes
swept female hair licking wind with perfume
and embrace's velvet voice singing nonsense
at his and her's melodic choice,
their audience not made from eyes
but others who touched touch in a kiss's
red woman whirl, in the wind's strutting
through free fall hearts pulling on love's
parachute twirl,
above everything
though with everything above,
a feeling like that.

Do not make me compare the contrast
this time, other times it has cried my
tears. Sky, bird, sky, plane. Burning
houses with flaming wind and rain.