Published in Quarter Press
No, the clouds are not melting.
They are not spread thin
like the last of the jam,
they are not retreating behind
any technicolor curtains, and they
are certainly not decomposing
for the vultures and thunderbirds.
No, they are lively, far more lively
than the most terrific wind storm.
They are giants lumbering
like muscley sludge through
a gelatinous sky, their smokey fists
smothering that sun in a wispy
chokehold. They are contortionists–
long, limber things wringing
their torsos into braids, past
the point of twisted twine waists
and to the point of their bodies’ total
extinction, separation, and rebirth.
Jaden Fong 