of what or who
we've lost,
clouds
out of nowhere
fledge and caper;
they swell and cleave
and bud and splatter
with all the deathless disregard
of immaculate
sprites for whom beauty
and whimsy
are all
that matters—but
have no cost.
How else would you explain
our utter failure
to prepare—even
to believe
that the worst has
come for us?
