Under today's cloud principles for the short term
place the poet, irrevocable, beyond recall
language at the cusp of comprehension.
And today's cloud holds no rain.

Under today's cloud clarity is golden.
Strange, poets lament with an ancient chorus
a gloomed brightness ending its play.
And today's cloud is toxic.

Under the circumstances, as this is the clay 
he must work with, the poet once again
begs to sell his soul. Such magic to dispel
today's sullen, questionable blur.