At dawn, Cuban cigar smoke and Cognac buff the cloud bluffs till they shimmer gold.

Midday is painted with Gordian knot, unsolvable blue, blue that invokes the totem Deva of the salt sea;

The eventide’s sea is a ruched ballet satin, foaming with teardrop lace; and pudendal pink with wine set of sun and starlight.

Guazy mauve illumines cloud nine; the brined air wefts icy, tulle cirrus; and suggests meteorological moksha.

I wish I could disappear in a swish; 

get gone 

like a chandelier of clean rain 

cascading in a water closet; I’d go down the shower drain in a vortex, my portal’s cirrus spinning like the geometry of wind turbines, and I’d  make a single formulaic glass rose before gurgling to nihil. 

I’d go like 

the waves that draw back their 

jeweled seafoam hamsas from the seething kettle of flambé sands.

Then I would have moksha: freedom.


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