When clouds die, we dance
Space for our songs to be born
Til evening; new scorn.
Now in this tired nursing home, there’s a rainbow sitting crooked in a chair. Sick with venom, wrought in black and white, fed on little silver teaspoons tempered in cask-aged despair. Faded photographs flit beneath his eyebrows, of the blue skies he sprinted through as a child; til he sought a palace under any roof, when the clouds came home and the water spree’d pure wild. Here now comes Nelly, the neurotic nurse, half-wrapped up in her horoscope, with her secondhand needle of the patient’s dope. She breaks the wasted skin, and pours a hearty feed of ersatz sunlight round his wimpy-growing bones. He breathes in a happier gulp of dying, and for a shadow of a stillborn second he’s back in that blue sky baby home .
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