it is the thing about clouds that they look
like other things.
when I see a cloud I think of other
clouds. its cloud siblings, its contiguous
particles unbelonging
to anyone. they coalesce in a wave and
pulse in and out of each
other’s bodies.
I hear clouds
are never
not moving.
I can imagine sitting in the middle of the cherry trees
(blooming white at this very moment) and the insects
that would crawl over my forearms. do ants ever sleep.
if my mother met me now, I would be half
of a stranger. she would be unchanged. maybe
blurrier. she sits, a mist in a glass case.
she has seen enough
cherry blossoms. even
in death, each new
year they are white.
the sensation of ants crawling over the
peonies, always again, the petals become
the skin thin on the wrists. they feed on my sweat,
they feed on my sweet. the pink
I choose
for my thoughts is
sparkling.