imitates of barefoot children run
and fling their arms to darting monarchs
who use the sea's serrated shore as a fly-by
to Brazil.

the sun's blaze gilds the wedding guests,
the bride throws flowers to the wind,
throws kisses and laughter;
arms wide to the groom.

she whispers a soft "I will"
as dark clouds fade orange wings.
"Gloom can happen," the priest remarks and ignores
the sense of it.

among the focused, licentious monarchs, I watch
skies drop her bleaks upon the ocean,
then spread her last of rays
down to the sandy plunge.

nature gluts on brides and feeds on weddings
to dye people like me, orange.