It will be etched into the sky
by a cloud concerned with record keeping
and celestial loafing. Three truths and an
exaggeration for the sake of a resume,
A beautiful suggestion of what might
Be true in alternate timelines of existence
or maybe just tomorrow.
It won’t always be this way, not with
any sort of certainty. No guarantees
will be made here.
Two things are certain: this and that. No,
I will not elaborate.
Even the clouds, with all their stenographic tools
and skills, are only making rough outlines for
a vague public record. Shells of what was
being said and done here. Their version of the events
is maybe not, as we might consider it, the full story.
From up there? Angle is all wrong. Distance makes
the mind’s heart wander, fuzzes out the key players
on the stage far below. There are no opera glasses
available to even the most prestigious cloud.
Down here? Even my heart. Thumping away in my stupid chest.
Letting my stupid blood course through me, to propel me
forward to further stupidity and acts of clumsy goodwill.
Even that, in its heat and its
constant awareness.
Even my heart lies. To me and
to you. And there’s no cloud worth its
weight in moisture and excess and probably
forever plastics that has any sense in its
stupid cloud brain to record my lies
with honesty.
