The Clouds, Flying Through At Altitude

The clouds upon my tongue
are rings of light,
that melt to moisture

and the cool gaze
of a bored duenna
on a Mediterranean balcony

against the deeper blue
of sky
imprisoning scattered

cumuli. How I fly here,
this night, with hovering
stars and city lights beneath,

thin patterns and patters
of constellated light
unseen and unsighted,

the moon mirrored
by rings of white light,
pallid moonbows

bursting with the sting
of brilliance against the blue
so deep it seems

black again. How I hover,
the cloud streaming through
the canopy, the ghosted

outlines of my aircraft,
the abstract dreams
and opinions

over the oceans and seas
to another land
of Mediterranean skies.

by Phillip Ellis

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