Blue heavns with clouds as fiberfill gone stale Jist floating lazly in morn's vague suspense, Where coffee scents the air with half a sense Of yonder whilst mine owly eyes in pale Excuse take note of aught reply t'avail As wont, sans words to roll oer fer intents My tongue, and silence shifts as twere from hence Without a voice as I leave that detail. So later, from the kichen window fer Mair than whatever, watch a wolf chase to Effect some shapeless form, which as it were Is caught just as his mouth decays in blue Seas no, erm, Jolly Roger haunts in tour, And wonder if that signifies aught too.
05Mar19a
NOTE: Coleridge extolled "...cloudland, glorious cloudland!--" or you can correct me, and Wordsworth coldly delineated several images from the clouds as well, the sestet containing a bit of that.