[Name Removed] says this is not real art. We’re two clouds
at a party. When I ask him about our ability to make lightning,
his reply is prurient. How had I thought electricity so chaste?
I hover over each guest like a kite until I know everything
about him or her. She is a spiral, he is an epiphany, she is
gratitude, he is worms, she a cake-maker, he a purple, frozen
heart. As clouds we depart with matter from each other,
about the size of a minnow-bag or a child’s balloon.
