by John MacKenzie
I know little about sunrise.
It comes, they say, once a day.
I have waked, occasionally, to see
Its traces still on the world,
Yellow and red stains of light
Spreading around clean shadows
Shrinking from the touch; as beggars
Might shrink from bankers on the street
If they knew that corpse-cold flesh
Subsumes what it touches.
Though sometimes, as today, dawn
Finds me walking by the water.
The north wind blows offshore carrying
A wailing tuned among city towers
Across the harbour clotted with spume,
Freezing to splintered teeth gnashing
Again after another false spring. I know
We forget what we know. Sun, rise.
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