Wind from the 45th Floor

This building bites my skin through to the bone.
Some wind it steals from North or South or West.
Some beast it finds to nip at flesh and stone.

Clouds fly past the glass panes of my wall:
some black, some white, some gray crests
of wind-drenched speed, a blue squall

of small birds, debris, what nature brings
downtown, and leaves to swirl the air, unblessed
by curse or prayer, it bites and sings.

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