Fragmented Cloud on a Sunday Morning Flight
In the middle of blue skies
I see a cloud so old
it wants to sail to Timbuktu
Timbuktu and rain.
Emily keeps calling the bees.
She wants to blame them for not hiding
the joy of their last flight.
No happiness is greater
than the flight taken to the glitter
of your own flower.
Where is Eden
Is there a hammock there?
Can we sing and never cut down trees?
Eden from the clouds
looks like fancy food, food
rushing through river of dreams
while the dead back-crawl
to the table where men sit
and forcibly bend to eat.
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