Fishbones

The sky has fishbones –
skeletons swimming across the plain
and the city a coral reef,
dead and rusty now.
Perhaps the clouds are not bones
but cuttlefish; a thousand rows
of wispy bone and shell. 

I have the attic room.
I sit in my wooden chair
and all there is
is an ocean above my head.
Which do I fear – that the window seal
is not watertight, or
that if I open it, I will be the one
to slip into the sky and drown?