i return to my dead, disagreeable.no cloud is the sameas it was, even thoughi wish they would be.or at least the best ones,the flame-broiled onesat dusk that holdthe gold gristle of the sun 'roundthe edges and cottony downin the belly, surrounded by agoing-to-die, waning-waning skyof some industrial-strength hue.it's all loose, liquid measures tothese eyes, my beloved...
