Out from a cloud overwritten in chalk air, she greys the black city despite million million million fairy lights. Weeks after Easter the world turns to fading newspaper, washed-out white beneath scattered opinion, alphabets dead in the shadows. Those are trees that spiral where car lights and heaven lights go, spending strenuous hours replicating moody clouds. They gave them life. Clearly, the seas of the moon shimmer into zigzags. It must be raining up there, an extreme weather event churning her sea surfaces phosphorescent. Umbrellas are useless under such conditions. Leave them at home. April roofs boat float into May.