Every evening she watches the sunset.
Her hair done up in chopsticks.
In her oak chair she opens the screen
Tulip bathrobe flutters, amber glasses,
watches the amberglass,
paint of clouds, on the clouds.
There she is on a cliff, still water,
falling water of the cliff,
she flies off, tulip.
Red, magenta. Blue, lilac. Mind colors.
She sighs, feels the wrinkles on her cheeks.
I never found it worthwhile.
The clouds can’t be as dark as you want them to be.