Try as it might,
your consciousness
is never
bare. Pernicious
or otherwise, you can
always find
a mood there—
some preexisting
atmosphere,
some disposition
must envelop it.
Just as
vagabond clouds,
hung like whims
in the sky,
appear so light
and variable,
unassailable
and high—so soft,
and yet
so permanent
that they themselves
weren't built
to notice
the barometric
pressure
put upon them by
this planet.
