analyticstracking
Poetry

Morning Meditation

I awake to a thin column of music
from the mosque
across the river. The tones cling to the streets,
seep into the skin of the man
asleep beneath the pink building.

In an hour I will hear the black clatter
of crows at the shutter,
the twill and burble of pigeons,
sun pressing through smog.

The last train bellows from its station-haven,
pushing off.
Incantation of prayer rises and hums.
It is not yet dawn.