Notes from the Window

Is it unlikely? The turpentine has evaporated.
At closed doors I am dark
shadowing the unusual light of winter orange
glow absorbed and lulled:
trash cans, stadiums of light.
My clock set, I enhance numerically,
absorbed by orange; numerical because
no one tries to number me; not that I have nothing
that can be counted, I might have some new kind of code.
I might as well shout, “I have depth of feeling!”
Sewer moss bursts in light
and the slippery morning looks like this:

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