A Hole To Crawl Through

5 am siren wakes you, sits you

bolt upright into the bleached-pink

sulfur-yellow sun birth

crooked arms reaching ether, extending

hooked tree-claws, bed

full of muttering feathered shadows

unseen pavement glitters

with remnants of night

(stacks & accidents & lost things)

that unknown distant roaring;

same in every city, provincial town,

on mountains; morning earth chant

clouds cream up curved walls of sky

stirred by the sun’s golden spoon

and poured into shining mirror-windows

through two layers to be absorbed by

your eyes; upside-down and distilled

into one stinging fluorescent needle

sound is clearer, brighter

in the hours between, reserved

for being round-edged and murmuring

lie back on pillows, drinking

soft brownness from a chipped pastel cup

light slowly crystallising your form

into something harder, less

prophetic; likely not to witness

an accidental sunrise.

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A Hole To Crawl Through

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