Every Plane Swims Towards A Cloud

every plane swims towards a cloud

noun jungle of consumerism

every room an installation

Don’t buy Coke

can of red

Don’t wear Chanel

in your bed

a bedside book of Renaissance humanism

jokes about existentialists from A to Z

a photograph of times unreclaimed

holds a hand out to a world passing like a taxi

tooth-enamel smooth and fragile

every day is a question curled inside a smile

every plane swims towards a cloud

the sky is a curve in a curved tea-cup

seldom do the leaves escape from their bags

cigarettes were once a major artery of economics

less light with lighters others’ cigarettes

conversation has sought out alternative pirouettes

no day is without ending

no night to match its lending;

inhabiting the night as moth-we, as moths

we look for lights where once were flames from candle-bee