It's those faintest,
particularly gauzy
clouds of early morning—
seeming to swath
last night's
dreams, still raw,
and steer them out
beyond the veil
of recollection—
which imbue
the drowsy onlooker
with the quaintest pretension
that the sky
which would deign
to dangle at his window
is the same
as the one which extends
to forever;
and that he's never been
more certain
of its clean, untroubled color—
and yet,
less sure
of the word for it.
