the structure of clouds  

high beam buzz

this night, one

from my lamp &

the other outside

among the Spanish

moss trees, that power line.

I think of us, you

dancing on my fingers,

your nails painted red,

soft on your toes, as

you step on my feet;

I glide our motion, waltzing

through our own space.

We are movie stars

shining, a tilted black

& white photo from

the 1940s, the sailor

kissing his girl

in Times Square, as

he lifts her off her

feet.  How we lift

in our chests

& shoulders, and

in noiseless moments,

we become a bouquet  

of orchids pressing

against the window

of a florist. We are

wrapped and placed

in glass, a tall vase.

Days later, we return

to dust.  The zephyr

zooms, sending our scent

into the stratosphere, we

become the clouds,

slow rolling thunderheads,

a hard rain that never ceases.       

(Original copyright, all versions, under Michael Trent, 2006.)