In Toothless Clouds

(Disclaimer: I don't have much of an idea for a poem tonight, but I feel obligated to post something here as I've been uncharacteristically absent here throughout the past few days. So, please - don't blame me for whatever comes out. I'm fucking exhausted and melancholic and I think the caffeine-cranked creativity must've all but dissipated by this late hour.)

The dislocation, the disconformity,
it smiles at us, lopsided in the sky.
It curls its orange lips as we watch it float by.

It reminds me of the slippery summer,
yeah, that soft season now long dead and long gone;
it recalls all the fast-fading open roads
that once stretched and yawned on and on before us.
I remember the fast free-fall down the hills
and trudging up similar slopes, inverted -
ah, the way life was, not cruel or perverted,
but rather something touchable, smooth, and real.

Maybe it was in the words we sang out then,
maybe it was on the uncomfortable banks,
or as we sat cursing the Earth in that bar,
maybe my solitary ride to Windsor,
or was it going down to Pennsylvania
to scream to bored kids at a wedding party.

Who knows? I don't, and it doesn't matter much,
but something about the sad November sky
makes me cry out for May and June and July.