Your crepe paper garb leaves nothing to the imagination.

Your transparency is visceral, daring, alarming.

Your veins throb with your life-blood,

Illuminated by midsummer sun;

I see right through you.

You actually are

Real, true,


Little Cloud of Smoke and Mirrors

Little cloud of smoke and mirrors,

How you gloat when shadows fall to earth!

You look down your nose as fears of

Sunless skies give frantic thoughts new berth.

But I can see through your pretense;

I know the fabric from which you’re made.

You are but a wispy incense;

Sun’s optimistic smiles trump your shade!