imagine snow—
the smell just before it falls—
as smiles starting
imagine snow—
the smell just before it falls—
as smiles starting
a sheaf of wheat
leaning upon itself—gusts
battering
some unlocked something—
green and red memory
tripping tumblers
walking gingerly
through pigeons, trying not to
spur applauding wings
once again
a shrouded sky—living
inside linen
fading along
with daylight, sure I’ve said
enough
now all those ghosts
return strewn with colored lights
to hide their gray
pigeons seem to find
this abandoned L platform
fine
opening and
closing day—the sore hinges
of books and bones
clocks of sunlight
and shadow striking at
severe angles