What the Sky Must Feel

This morning from my bed I saw the walls
And the ceilings and the floors of the room
Come into orange light. What the sky must feel.
And the sun rang softly behind the cathedral.
And inside, the snow turned
To wheat on my winter skin.
And it rang distant laughter of cold from wide-mouthed
Fields and often in secret I felt crows trade there
Inside the bodies of wind.
Then scatter, and then fall, into loose strands of hair
From a face, a bleary cloud.
But, how do you remember a cloud, I ask,
As I drive out from the city, through winter,
Almost invisible now and
The part of all my going, it seems, a touch,
But not. Wanting more from
Whatever it was we wanted.

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