It’s 8:26 on Sunday morning, sun has risen
high enough to paint the house across the
street bright, cornice only, the rest still in
shadow, the tree in front of it a black skeleton.
The furled awning of the building behind it
flaps from time to time, tiny, an inch across
maybe. Behind that the one building in
Manhattan you can see from our window goes
matte under a passing cloud. The alarm clock
ticks slowly, loudly. The faint rattle of phlegm in
your throat soothes, its iambs predictable until
you roll over and stop breathing. I hold my
breath, counting. Eleven. You snort and I
smile. Birds circle in the blue above the water
tank. This, too, a wild kingdom.
Wild
Originally from Minnesota, Julie Hart has lived in London, Zurich, and Tokyo. She now resides in Brooklyn Heights, New York. Her work can be found in The Brooklyn Poets Anthology, vol. 1; Anti-Heroin Chic; Beautiful Losers; and elsewhere.