Next Day

Twenty-seven past zeroes the
Storke Tower bell breathes
Classic West whilst the windy
Pacific sounds hungry in my
window.

Fucking birds
mount red grooves and black
wires.

Thirty-one. Thirty-four.
Thirty-five.

The gaining golden
bell winds. Thirty-nine. Car
door slams three times.

Birds,
on course, fly West in wind next to
sky engines looping East. Sometimes
we live off land, you know.

Fifty-seven. Taste the rain.
The tower chimes zeroes again.

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