Martin Worster
High Rise
On the seventeenth floor there’s nothing but clouds.
By sitting up I can introduce a church spire,
Rising into view like a rocket on its launch pad;
And if I stand then the rest of Birmingham
Slams upward into the frame, a collage of corners.
Sharp. Unyielding.
It’s like bereavement, standing up, so I prefer
To lie, hands beneath my head, this little room
Focusing down to the single broad window, the clouds
Monstrous and becalmed in the clear infinite blue.
Page(s) 48
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