The Warmest Wool of Foxes (revised)

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

Wind buffets the curtains at the twilight of my repose
And I’m at the halfway cliff, teetering,
“Stop”

But I wait.

I close my eyes instead,
I close my eyes and fall deeper into my bed
and into the smells that fight against the bottleneck window frame.

What does it smell like?

It smells like petrichor,
The petrified purity of tears without a why
It smells like feathers, like
A reverse atomic blast funneling in from the sky
and into the alarm bell sparrows that follow no uniform commands.

But there’s something else that coils around my nose like vines,
Right there, behind the christmas pines
it is the scent of dissent,
Brewing, like morning coffee in a pot;
Warm, refreshing, wool for the bluest lips.
A reminder
that there’s a day ahead of these whips,
when your chains will morph
in armour, and the quiet rage you harbour
will strike against the brain-blood barrier
and rip your anchors free.

What does this armour smell like?

It smells like anger and wakefulness
Courage and cowardice
It smells familiar,
and hinges on to me like the wet newspaper
That lies outside my door,
crying
ink into white

and those tears are no simple metaphor,
rolling down from the eyes of the final editor
as newsflashes
of lost mothers and one half of twin brothers
Obituaries to those who take without giving,
rip apart the stories of the unloved and unwilling

This
is what the morning breeze smells like:

the tire-tracked underbelly of roadkill
that sees the world stand still
on a computer screen,
And knows that signatures can backspace our mistakes.

But where am I the wiser,
who live as they speak?
Here I stand, and perform the truth i seek,
poeticise a waning clarity
that I would never wish to carry

so I wake to the open window, and my second 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 disobedience is a crime,
“Close”, for the brightest snow is the warmest wool of foxes,
the imitation game of sunlight.

close, let me sleep again.

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