Iowa mornings are beautiful. Even when I'm hacking up phlegm, wrapped in a blanket, standing barefoot on the cold concrete stoop out front, watching Stella take a long slow leak on her favorite juniper bush. I look up to the skies and squint - for without eyeglases or contacts, my world is a pointillist Mondrian's world - & I see various North Stars, moons, poltergeists of activity, sunlight tipping out from the East, and cloud fragments tinged celestial-menstrual redgold, trying to escape.
Later, as I bike to school, the sky has shed its skin and become a new sky. Nothing celestial-menstrual about it. It's an inverted lake now, bottomless blue, thick with invisible gods. It's an earthen sky. It's an atmosphere. It's untouchable air blowing arpeggios down upon this plant and animal world.
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