Trammels of Analysis.

Floating, drifting
on the blue bourbon stubbornness.
Your wiseacre finiteness,
thudding from one clear sky to another,
hacking at every silver cloud
in an attempt to clear the
imaginary smog.

When will you close
those shrewd eyes
and see
the flesh of your dream.
The supernova of your being
glowing right within.
And the lacerated bits of gossamer
left behind from those tender clouds
by your guarded plow?