the year starts dark

•

morning must be brighter than this
like the sun left but didn't close the door
the difference between internal and external shapes
how the body sculpts, stores, moves around
where does the light come in
when clothes are forgotten, when skin stays in its own yard
as if the power had gone out and wont come back, diverted & rationed
as if I have to show my ID to get to a neighborhood with light
the sky heavy but unyielding,
like the angry so-disappointed glare of a parent you wish
     would start yelling
so there was hope of a better tomorrow
or the sky feels inadequate for letting in as much light as it does
when car headlights are on at 10 am I know this isnt the world
     I went to sleep in
the school buses are beige instead of yellow
I see a straight seam in the horizon
no one walks, everyone rides.

if I went to the top of mount scott would I hit my head on the clouds,
would they shy away from me, would the cloud grab my head
and suck the rest of me up into its maw, as if the cloud a whale
     swallowing me,
about to ram into snowy cascades & me without a gps or snow glasses
flapping my wet gore-tex above the ski lifts
settling into the gray like a leaf thick crevasse
rain cant touch me when im asleep
heat worms transforming water into flame
as if plaster wont crumble when I touch it
as if the window I tried to open would reveal its liquid memory
the ceiling is 3 inches closer cause im floating above the floor
eclipsing the negative light coming through my bodys uninsulated windows
my stomach like a garage door any remote can activate
I learn to sing the channels, to increase volume with a chord
but i cant sing heat or rain, I can only recreate the sun
     that's been through me:
instead of gutters I have bones to sluice the rain away,
bones gray enough to see through. as some water always stays behind,
pockets full of trade, rumors of skies you can see across, clouds
     as decoration not command.
when, if you knew the date, you knew the weather