Someone spilled milk into the sky
soaking the blueberry cream tart
oozing with scoops of orange sherbet
dripping over yellow flan puffs and
into the maple cracks of dusk
But the floor of the horizon
could not think to pick it up
Instead, it held the disarray in
his gaze until his eyes drooped
and barely any light shone back
And the world turned in
When glittered crystals of sugar
blinked like a city upside down
Syrupy shapes made a dim morass
of beauty, into blue air muddle
Like opium smoke in 1868
Lying down, he whispered to himself
lines of Gibran, Neruda
conjuring memories of sky
when clean, free of spills
or blurring color
Those were the clear times
that the horizon would now
only see at distance
Ahead, the honeyed dome
a sweet and flaky firmament
Dark omen though it may be
with this acknowledgement
he closed his eyes
and kissed the whole
body of the sky