Really,
who wants to have eyes
like the synthetic blue plastic of a water bottle
when the cobalt sky stretches endlessly above,
innocent bluebells rent the dry cracked earth,
and azure streams quench dusty banks
in the middle of a silent forest?

The caged bird dreams of clouds,
says the Japanese child
while wiping charcoal air from the balcony railing
where he stands watching
pungent traffic beneath him.

Once this land was drowned
with molten lava from the pure white peak
over his shoulder
that pierces the thick clouds of smog,
trying to conceal it.

Tame that power,
confine the roiling sea
or the regal eagle
in a gilded cage of people.
They admire, they praise,
but beneath the depthless sky
they address in prayers
come dreams of clouds
in nightmares.