Underneath
When you say the clouds
are your special friends, it is not
to disown the desert sun,
this most luminous enchanter
for whom you bear your life
in a suitcase.
The clouds are
a respite and a seclusion.
You converse with them alone
at a table in the dingy smokehole
of a bar. The clouds inhabit
a can of Coors as easily as
any other space.
When you lug yourself
along under the sun,
there is always something
you leave behind. A forgotten
story, a wise caution.
You neglect yourself as if you were
a strip of celluloid.
When the clouds
come around you can tell them this.
They know what you mean.
