Pi Shapes An Irrational Number

The clouds do a Buñuel.
Now the night bleeds into blindness;
now it sees more than it may

tolerate on the day it will recall
cast away underpants, sweating
held fresh in a perfume-bottle,
scent of a shattered vial gone stale
on a hoary carpet.

Splashed in that momentary bleeding
we stand midst the jettisoned picnic,
the cabin for lovemaking behind us,
your figure inks the smoke sign
rising from a deceased bonfire.

Sky, will your memory keep us safe?