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The book tells me the cloud is in everything—yesterday’s thunderhead in today’s tea,this morning’s fog in the museum walls,the plume of my breath in the rattlesnakecoiling around a painted peace lily. Look,my friend says, and the framed stalk of cornmoves me to awe. I am never not in lovewith the world and its yellows. The book istrying to teach me how to see bubblesglistening in their unicorn purples, floatingunpopped, rendered nearly permanent in paint.I study a spirit bird made of glass, and my friendsurprises me with her diagnosis. Crows fly throughthe window in my chest. The book would sayher blood cancer is also a cloud, but today I can’tbear the sky and its........

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