Almost Dawn

Almost Dawn

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.