Fogmagedden
I once daydreamed
I could touch the clouds
From an airplane seat
They are angelic, billows of angel speak
Puffy white, silky, plumes,
With the mystical foolery of dry ice.
This month, they’ve lowered themselves
Upon our shoulders, as if unafraid
Of our touch.
They too are heavy with tears
Perhaps they needed to lower themselves,
To be fully understood
