Skyscraper.
Such a violent name.
Sheets of metal and glass placing their fingernails on a chalkboard of sky.
Scratch. Tear. Rip. Slice. Howl.
They stand unaffected by the frosty winds that gild each strand of my hair
And make me long for fireplaces and Christmas.
The gale has wrenched the clouds from above me
And the night opens itself coldly to my pleading eyes
Revealing stars, real stars
Even though they are smothered under the pillowcase of city lights.
But the moon dangles in the sky, opulent as ever
Almost full
A dented ping-pong ball suspended halfway back to its earthly table.
I think suddenly, inexplicably
Of dawn.
I think of how the sun rises in Africa
Hauling itself over the cliff-edge of Ugandan earth
A blue dawn.
Night seeping into the birth of day
Soaking everything in saturated indigo
Blue hands
Blue skirts
Blue road receding into the damp air that will soon bow to the sun.
I want to breathe that blue again
To roll it between my palms
But it is a city night
And I must wait a very long time
For the rescue of a pale winter dawn.