Fuck, the clouds again

Renaissance clouds,
high as another ancient arch,

a puff of Magritte Cloud,
so low, very close
right above, my love said ,
like in a painting.
she was there,
somewhere the painting, the sky, their mutual possession
I mean, the sky like the painting, or painted like the sky…?

was thinking,
how we adore the view of the clouds

and before I describe, in unbearably dramatic tones, the clarity of the blue
envelope without folds that the floating puffs have been eclipsing…

but the view of everything right beneath,
when we are shadowed by one, below one hovering low,
spells impending, Medieval doom
of lightning and strong spiral wind
of rain and thunder

I know what to falsely accuse, like how I know who to blame,
it is the fault of stories and cartoons I was fed as a child

No.
it is still the traffic here, the people around, and the type of conversation they held