Cloudy Theses

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 8/5/08

The exposition of this evening’s light
Is ending in a colorless fade what has
All day been moodily uncertain.
Frosty striations of cirrus blotted out by
The irregular massings of wooly old philosophers,
Puffing out humidity as they expound,
Almost in whispers, the most circuitous
Propositions against a background of simplistic
Blue. It’s the best they can do, without resorting
To more visible effects. But their conversations
Create, inside our chests, an almost ineffable
Strangeness, as if we were small children
At Sunday mass, whose God is peering
At down at us, caged, and knowing, that as the Priest
Intones The Word, that we little beasties
Are not listening. And yet those moods have been
Saying something, and making distinctions
In blue and white and grey and lavender,
Whose ambiguities can transform whatever
Human or inhuman material is at hand. And we,
Caught now in this vertigo, become almost willing
Vessels for a nearly speechless beauty.
Yes, yes, “nearly”, “almost”, that’s what
They seem to be saying, those old philosophers.
Their windy shapes, vague colors, uncertain
Orientations, moving slowly in phosphorescent bands:
Ghost-lights, spook-lights, prankish will-o-whips,
Propounding unformed words for the uninformed.

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