The Warmest Wool Of Foxes

I wake to an open window, and my first thought is “Close”.

Wind buffets the curtains, heavy slaps awaken asphodels of my consciousness.
I’m at the halfway cliff, teetering,


But I wait. I close my eyes instead,

And fall into the smells that fight against the bottleneck window frame.

What does it smell like?

It smells like petrichor,
The petrified purity of tears of sky.
It smells like wet feathers,
A reverse atomic blast, reversing the past,

The alarm bell sparrows that follow no uniformed commands.

But there’s something else,
Right there, behind the pines and their snow-sheltered children.
The scent of rebellion.
Brewing, like morning coffee in a pot;
Warm, refreshing, wool for the bluest lips.
A reminder
that there’s a day ahead of this time, that will morph
into a blazing afternoon
That will wind into a windy evening

And that night is always yet to pass.

What does rebellion smell like?

 It smells like anger and wakefulness
Courage and cowardice
It smells familiar, and it hinges on to me like the wet newspaper

That lies outside my door, crying ink into white.

 And these tears are no metaphor,
Born as they are from the vermillion stories
of lost mothers and rubble children
Obituaries to the disgraced and hardly living,

Warping unmonuments to misunderstood people.

 This is what rebellion smells like:
the tire-tracked underbelly of roadkill that sees the world
pass by through a computer screen,

And knows that signatures can save the world.

 But where am I the difference?
Here I sit, and speak through my experience,
Poeticize the clarity I used to carry like a burden
Where now the rotting cliff looms above me,
And in the bowels of this shining white,

I wake to an open window, and my first thought is

 “Close”, for I will not smell; the cold wind bites my nostrils,
“Close”, for I cannot love the smell of grass,
When the trees are caged in time
And the rain no longer visits
“Close”, for the brightest snow is the warmest wool of foxes,

the imitation game of sunlight.

So close, and let me sleep again.


Note: Find the revised version of this poem here.

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