Windsor, and kite seats –
I see that we are snowed in to the sky
clouds have come half-removing themselves
to be just oxygen orbs, little pods
of white. So much like an eye
without a pupil, or a tulip budding wide.

She is beautiful but sad, salty sad
inhaling it as a fume
the smoke that does not disintegrate
giving her cancer of the brain.

These sails flap like torn skin,
pale and cleaned of the internal things.
Clouds feel that champagne-bottle way –
fizz hopping from their stomachs
and spread her melancholy east, then west.

We give it to you, gentleman,
with these outstretched ***** for hugs
infect you and cough on the ones we love.

But you are not yet stuck –
barren, frozen, these skypanes in ivory
unlock their mouths for weather to swallow
and only get the sad, salty sadness,
white winters infected by dirt.
Clouds told they can fly, but it still hurts.