To Be Struck Alive by Different Weather

Dawn spills out of slate sky. But It's a dawn of moldy words, old fingers: colors of knives and concrete. My skin waits for an orangejuice sun, to be struck alive by different weather. Still the room drowns. He said, Baby you'd better choose now. Beating, beating. Under the mountain of grey sheets, no answer. Verbs of dust hurt my eye. But I don't see how to go with him. Or how to stay in these walls I can't live in where everything falls with the frostbrown apples, where an icebird keeps banging against the window. And cries for what is green and warm keep bruising the glass inside my bones.