Up on my tower

I wake up, and feel like
I’m made of morning.
Made of that spongy sky
that’s spitting its lemon glow
all over the endless east.
I open every window, north and south,
and stand in the wind,
in the wide void of the apartment,
an airplane spreading its wings
all across the sixth floor,
a shivering flap of marrow-like indigo
five feet below the tin roof.
Heading to some long forgotten
geomagnetic pole, a sudden hole
peeping through the nacreous haze,
north-northwest – I breathe the dawn.
I wake up, again and again.
Up on my tower, I’m flown across
by every slightest change in the sky.

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