mn :: poetry

February 17th, 1995

Kearney Street explodes

in a thousand black pigeons,

days we cannot see.

A hand on my neck,

"the world is too much with us" --

its clear floating rings.

I would speak of the

hyacinth, but I am stopped

by a thousand birds.

Clear floating rings drift

and pile high, clear floating rings,

a sleep of feathers.

An unseen flower

blooming -- against it, feathers,

black tricks of the eye.

Waking after noon

my every wish is in the

sunlight on your skin.

Last modified: Oct 24, 2008 2:28 pm. Contact me.