Wiping Up

night clears the indigo sky,

sponging smog into the ground

or somewhere, we can't see or smell it,

and today's clouds no longer look 

like they're flowering forth from the expanse

the way a poem,

an atom bomb,

or cream in my coffee

flowers

these clouds light, like fly-away spun sugar

on a wash of all subtle blues combined

the wind plays high in this atmosphere,

as if it had discovered a vertical field

and could now run

not low to the ground and gritty

as it was this afternoon,

but chilled like a bottle of wine,

with all the bubbles of champagne 

is there a sponge for my smog, and the iniquity 

of my clouding?

will the rain that frees the wind

pour also an ablution 

for my grime-smeared windows?