Dawn's Cut

The siren slips beneath the sky

like a blade through thick, wet fog.

Red and blue smear on the street—

wet pavement bleeding light.

I stand, caught in the crack

between sleep and waking,

sound stretching, torn,

as the stars blink out one by one.

The wail rolls off like a distant tide,

pulling something urgent

from the shadows where I held

onto quiet until it slipped.

Wet tires hiss, the city exhales,

and I am left with a silence

too sharp to hold,

leaning into the night’s thin edge.