oblong optics

there’s a magnetism that an airplane window holds over me.

this molasses-speed unfolding of white fluff
passes through a plastic oval.
it is an ever-changing movie, a film, 
islands and mountains of untouchable cotton visited by a metal bird.

unpredictable and, all the same, unimaginably unanimous.

but these that we see from the window,
through the tiny hole we’re permitted to peer out of,
these clouds are
different

from the ones I see from the ground
as I lay and twiddle my fingers through grass and weeds,
shredding bits of green and letting them fall to the ground. 

unnecessary compost.

i bake on the beach like a bagel in sesame seeds.
i feel warmth from below and above and, as one of these clouds pass, I feel

bothered.

how rude of this cloud to interrupt my light,
as if being woken from a nap prematurely.

for this, the cloud is not welcome.

let me be clear - it is not the cloud I am really bothered with,
but rather,
the darkness the cloud brings, if only for a moment.

these from the window are different.

they hold light so blindingly white,
so harsh,
so addictive,
so hypnotic.

i see a blue and green window in my eyelids when
I turn away to blink,

a small kaleidescope of pixels,
a freeze-dried retna.

i feel over-exposed.