The 19th Floor

The wind promises soft, feather-pillow wings
and the crookedly smiling street below,
spreads its blanket arms to me.

The city lights haver and shimmer
like so many torches, all burning, all-consuming;
all carried for you.

Their light wavers and wobbles in the hiss of rain
that could be tears that douse the light and night together
washing blindness and void in a shudder

of stepping back from the pull of siren streets,
the cold caress of copper, iron and steel,
and tempest tossed tree-tops that move in sheets

of green, brown and black. Come back! Come back!
I hear their call as I stumble, a  broken Orpheus
who has managed to bring back his love

to the doorstep of day only to realize her fainting limpness
is no mere passing out, but a true and corpselike passing over,
as her body dissolves in mist and magic.

I howl and tense to leap, feel the budding beatific wings,
the spearpoints of fletchings sprouting through my skin,
unfurling with the whoosh of opening umbrellas

and have the time to notice, in my Mary Poppins' glide and sway
the cherished curve of hope's cheek being kissed goodbye by day.

Annette Marie Hyder

If you've any comments on this poem, Annette Marie Hyder would be pleased to hear from you.

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