walking gingerly
through pigeons, trying not to
spur applauding wings
walking gingerly
through pigeons, trying not to
spur applauding wings
once again
a shrouded sky—living
inside linen
pigeons seem to find
this abandoned L platform
fine
clocks of sunlight
and shadow striking at
severe angles
“Sure,” she said,
“but, these days, isn’t it all
after the fact?”
collar tipped up,
hiding from notice—marrow
hot heart of bone
two airplanes—
the space between them too wide
to make a line
poets might connect
today’s weather with weeping
but whose tears are these?
the hottest day—
so far—rages on like
blasting static
sultry—leaves
weighed by sun—and cicadas
bay relentlessly