Did you see the same sky I did
tonight, after dinner? The last of rich sauce and
gristle left off from the meat.
Swallowing one more jagged crust
of bread, the last pull of wine, then lurching to the driveway
so I could stare at white swaths of flimsy atmosphere
and wonder where such a thing came from.
It wasn’t expected, the explosion
the orange and red heat of the day splayed
across the horizon. A child’s spilled paints.
The day had been a rage and ended
in the gray stealth of skirting storms. Threats,
then nothing, leaving the space tired, exerted.
A slash of lavender impaled by the dark teeth
of mountains. Is this what you saw?
Or were looking at your beige walls,
the outside pushing against your blinds.
I saw that sky from your balcony once,
when you were at work. It made me think
of elephants and Spain and making love.
That night, we ate in an air-conditioned restaurant,
our meals perfectly trimmed and spaced, white plates
and light that cast no color. In the leather-laden car
we slid through the dusk while I searched for the sky we had lost.