That age of jet comes again and again

That rush beyond the pale and pastel piping
brought a flush promise of cocoa in a stream.

We never thought a wing could be so whoosh,
parched up from a drought when dusty wells
were teased to draw water with rusted hands
used to blank cluck if a game bird was flushed.

Hunks of flesh on greasy black grill bars seared
were suddenly passe and a chardonnay victory
caught us scrambled to master an accent grave.

Pink graces brief moments when paired with blue,
sky driven dreams grown wilder by see thru too.

High on the jet stream an icy face of mirrors shows
those cirrus blown black eyes frozen late with kohl.