Thrusting up seventy-five black iron steps
on chipped paint with edges decayed by salt
I twisted up round and around white bricks
caressed the exposed mortar with wet fingers
tracing for a groove under the beveled lens.
A voice floated up through the spiral,
a folk song sung from a face far below.
Between vertigo and spin I was lost in wonder.
A seagull spasmed against the glass
and shocked me to my senses.
There are things under the feathers, things
hidden from the dust that clenches the throat
with the dry fingers of remembrance.
That time on the last night when the sky exploded.