My ex-girlfriend and I were on the plane on the way to a city,
flying past the frozen clouds slowly enough in fact so that I could
examine their very motionlessness, which included, I slowly discerned,
a colossal stretched-out male figure, the same color as the clouds, his arm
wearily held out, fully extended, the hand taking a fistful of cloud 
and squeezing it in a futile gesture as we passed, she 
not noticing, and it then occurred to me:  angels must exist 
for the creature was alive with a melancholy sigh,
and I even heard the sound of the cloud
as it was crushed in his giant hand like powdery snow --
but now the plane picked up speed and left the figure behind,
accelerating and speeding between narrow rows of skyscrapers heading
straight toward a line of others directly ahead. The plane 
can't make this turn, I thought, recognizing it 
as a dream and turning to tell my present girlfriend about the realness
of it as I realized she too was fictional, and as I turned 
toward the final, physical version from across the imaginary loft we were trying 
to rent to strangers, I knew this was yet another layer between sleep and April.

The East Village Poetry Web
Tony Towle