An hour ago, our skin, akin to clawed clay, came and combed in teeth of amethyst and bone–oh, you know, just a precipitous cappuccino.
“Clawed clay” is so well described.
I’d only add:
the molten lava, like Jupiter’s eye and
the top-hatted man holding up his rather sad umbrella.
A chimney sweep’s propeller in tow: fan of an altostratus, pastel and askew.
A boy kneels down, unseen, giggles to himself. He holds a tie, a cord that’s wrapped around his big boy propeller. Oh but when he pulls… When he pulls!
He giggles to himself, kicks his feet the way he would if he were to throw a tantrum. But he’s not throwing a tantrum; he’s splitting himself with laughter.
He pauses, breathes, then pulls. The propeller unwinds and unwinds, first slowly, then rapidly, more rapidly, more rapidly like a top. It wobbles and rattles some, speeding up all the while. The three lines blur and blur, becoming a circle, a disc, a spinning planar world.
When the contraption finally lifts off into a sky clawed by clay, he is elated by the sense of deliverance. Yet as it rambles forth into the altostratus–pastel, molten, askew–he too feels pastel, molten, askew. He never knew, till now, what sadness really was. He stands wordless, his awe the awe of adults for whom release is always complex…