scissors
opening and closing
like strides
scissors
opening and closing
like strides
as birds
conduct—their voices songs
demanding lyrics
as reflected
in high-rise windows—blue fields
and diamond hard sun
moments floating
in seas of oil you can’t
tell from water
imagining eyes
as rooms—moonlight lining
each object’s edge
harmony
and music woven—or
the opposite
black hours—ink
that makes pens seem
shadows’ source
each city a maze
and all the faces in them
seeking exits
between the bells—
every silence a touch
too long
after traveling—
blank and empty blocks
full of light