This morning the yawning sky was witnessed,
a puddle of orange juice seeping upward
into the fabric of frigid black night,
through a dirt-seamed windshield.
2:11 am's dusty blue sky is blind
to the building slicing
Glory with a rust red razor edge,
to the puncture
of a cell phone tower,
radiating the scene.
Our smoldering star ticks
off celestial bliss,
with a long low sigh
that steams each window sill
and fries the laundry hanging to dry.
Tonight the crooning sky will be haled--
a Hallelujah chorus of lights
hung on a deep blue scale --
through the crooked bars of plastic blinds.