Changeling Of Ceaseless Motion Poem by Patti Masterman

I try to find the code of being that's hidden in the clouds,
Not obvious, not concealed but still in plain sight,
Of sun that is distant, in the invasive universe,
Slivered writing, floating cumulus
Cursive inclining, while shadows lengthening.

The planes have the keys,
The planes flying anywhere;
There is a droning noise they make:
Listen with your bones, and feel the air's quivering,
The planes wearing moist air like transparent jewels,
The clouds wearing planes like shining trinkets.

The pulsing day unravels like a scroll,
Heavy as damp parchment from unrolling clouds,
Heaving letters scorching suns in soul,
Their lightest touch burning me
I hold up burned fingers; festering desires.

You are the revelation of raw yearning,
You the revulsion's abrupt turning,
The vaults of heaven, beneath a changing sky,
The letters and numbers racing by,
The breeze chanting low like fleeting cymbals-
In throes I strain to catch the syllables leaving-

But the words are stretched to infinite overload,
Breaking somewhere at last unknown,
Faltering like a broken thread of species,
The pages fluttering by in pieces;
There is a mirror that unclothes the day,
While the white clouds wither away.

You are the changeling of ceaseless motion,
Like waves behind the primordial ocean.