Skywriting

I do not know if it is a gaping maw,

this place where once you lived.
My fingers trace a small,
scooped-out space,
walled in shadows and light,
and I wonder to myself--embarrassed--
Did you send the creamsicle clouds?
Did you rouse me with low thunder,  just to say 'hello'?

And then--just like that--the clouds turn wan again
Colorless canvasses clutching the hues of their former selves.

As I walk to the park this morning,
I cross into 1983 and I am at the Whitney again,
where I fall in love with Pollock and De Kooning.
Later, in its cafe, over a shared sandwich,
you sit, mesmerized by the dappled clouds that cover the walls.

For years, you come back to those clouds,
wondering how they did it,
those nameless artists who nudged the skies into a
concrete building.

This morning, under self-same clouds,
I think of you
and run my fingers along the edges of that soft space
that you once filled.