By Nicholas Klacsanzky
I rise with the city
because I am one of its lights.
A miniature brick building,
darker without dawn’s snoozed head,
reaches up with its red-webbed fingers
like a passerby with balanced attention
in the flurry of watch strokes,
clicking inside the minds of those who think
they were responsible for their waking.
Speaking of waking, I haven’t.
My eyes are misplaced anchors to the words I write.
I open them when I know the poem is written
out of its moment.