Describing clouds is a talent I wasn't given . . .
I am walking on a mountain and looking from a height
toward the clouds, as they hang from the lapis orbit
light and diaphanous,
like cotton ginned by wind,
like a white idea about the meaning of existence.
Perhaps some gods would refine the story of creation
"No final shape for this universe . . .
no history of shapes . . ."
I am looking from a height, and I see the bursting of shape
out of the frivolity of no-shape:
the bird feathers sprout in the white stag horns,
the human face appears
out of a marine bird's wing . . .
The clouds sketch us in their manner
and the faces get mixed up with the vision,
nothing is complete nor anyone, because in a moment
your new image will become the image of the tiger
wounded by the wind's scepter . . .
Unknown painters are still in front of you
playing, and drawing the absolute eternal,
white, like clouds on the wall of the universe . . .
And the poets build homes with clouds
then move on . . .
For each sense there is an image,
and for each time there is a cloud,
but clouds have short lives in the wind,
like the temporary eternal in poems,
which neither vanishes nor lasts . . .
It's my good fortune that I am walking on a mountain
looking from a height
toward the clouds . . .