The sky is stale

The sky is stale, a boy said of the clouds.
We looked over the edge of sea.

But I can still see her white breath.
Look.

I had not seen blue clouds before.
Neither had the sea
who returned to the sky her blueness and her breath
in crests and pulses and I wondered of the time
I flew over the sea and could not see its movement,
only the coarse cobalt fiber it showed back to the sky and me.

The sky is musing, an old man said of the clouds.
We saw the clouds tumble over the edge of sea
out and in; breathing
in and out
onto the sea and into us.

But instant sense is not sense at all.
See?