Huge herds of small clouds from either side of the heavens taper into the distant center; where the bruise of a sunset bleeds light stains onto clusters of bandaging cotton swabs. From either side of the heavens, retreating forward from behind me, as night leans its blue hues into shade. From either side, retreating as night stretches and begins to articulate. Into the distant center, compact expression, accumulated wrinkle, like great white quilts balled up into the mouth of a washing machine--Great White Quilts that can't all fit, into the cleansing light that fades away minute by minute.
Huge herds of small clouds from either side of the heavens converge at the agreement of a bruised center. They pace the sky, slowly, patient, with romance they draw faces to one another fusing into a kiss, exchanging shapes. A colony of one giant organ, an unbroken dream. From either side of the heavens, shoving steadfast into the echoing light the sun leaves behind, as she exits. Herds of blooming clouds that wish to leave with her, trying as they might to all squeeze into the sun's reverb.
Night continues to push forward from behind me, from either side of the heavens--the corners, darken like wet cloth--The stampede, rushing desperately with microscopic urgency; fractional speed. And its very well that many of the swelling herd will indeed find haven--one last embrace from the sun, carrying an armful with her, pressed against her breast as she leaves the day for good. Its very well indeed for some, but most will remain where they are--Where the wound of a sunset, is licked by the salty saliva of evening, and the bleeding gash of light, scabs and then heals. Night washes over the cool, new skin with breeze and mystery.
Huge packs of large clouds, full elephants trading bodies in mid-air, from either side of the heavens the herds are breaking apart. They disperse with tension and futility, embarrassed as they float about, realizing they're stranded. They have been abandoned--Great White Pillows facing the same golden door, now shut. Orphans, they perhaps begin to adapt--inspire influence from the reaching caresses of night's heavy palms, they sigh one last breath of day before turning round, with their backs to the scar where the bruise of sunlight once stood.