White clouds the sky with her 

lucid virulent plumes

it is morning and we

rise, stand, bloom

a mass of torn shirts and sweaty legs

gleaming like the teeth of orange

who breaks into blaring streaks at dawn 

then wanders, drooling red, mumbling at the wind

and to think I have ever seen grace

on a sunny day in Reno

I watch through the window for awhile

thinking white must be the devil’s color

I watch for awhile because If I were god I wouldn’t do it this way I wouldn’t

hide all my toys behind blurred airy sheets or leave myself 

all-powerful yet still searching for clarity 

in white eyes white limbs white tongues

white

clouds, no I 

would paint them blue 

so I could see the truth, or at least fool myself into believing

that humans don’t exist