I am the call of happy cranes
the sigh of the wind around fruit-bearing trees.
And, of course, Sir,
I am the perforated nipples
that change everything into symbols
like the storm in the last stanza of a poem.
I am almost dawn
that wants to be broken
if only to say something.
And I cannot pay for a book of poetry
but I am present in all of them
as the dirty billow of abandonment
or clear day of dreams.