Cloud-Trees

In my psyche's garden grows a fluffed proliferating
pair of cloud-trees – siphoning the cream of dreams
into unending lightly obfuscating nearly weightless

blossoms – breathy schemes of pretty, puffed
uncertainties which lavish wafting qualifying clauses
through whatever clarities you think you ought

to make about effects and causes: little “I’m-not-sure’s”
to season and befog the putative pure cures
you’d otherwise convince me you’ve produced:

inducing blinking eyes of soft incomprehension where,
without my cloudlets’ intervention, you might once
have trapped me into brusquely nodding yes or no.

But now I fall back in a sweet blest flow of vast
parentheses of maybe, so-to-speak, and as-it-were:
a purr of openness – a blur, dissociative bliss whose

kiss is barely loud enough to register: forgiving
to the brink of senselessness: a lulling cloud allowed
to shroud all edge and joint. At last you have no point.

.