A dark dirty cloud knocked past the window by the table.
The gray day called after an early summer.
This cloud at the level of my window, and sooty.
The cloud turns white from gray as it’s put out.
In a dream I’m at the opera with a friend,
I need to pee but asleep can only dream of relief.
What I’m watching isn’t a dream. Smoke turns to steam.
The inspector romanticizes the first responders.
To see more like the colors they are suffused in
They dissolve on the beach as waves erase a name.
We don’t see even in our century there’s no shore left.
There’s a planetary city of trees facing the same life.