the train in my mindfinally stops beforeI get off and wend the way through thisgarden of you turningthe fan off in the night. returning to

I want to tell you about the cereal I ate or pigeon footprints in wet cement, but scarcity warrants demand and these heady grass days

no pilgrimage quite as long as the four country miles, side-to-side in disconnected brooklyn, walking east to go west yet again we accidentally tango both

what a moment it is to haveshelved the bottle just as I’velearned a new game of cards.hands keep busy as birdsoutside run their errandsback and

Scheherazade, night so longwith the story I tell myselfto help winter pass, could be five ormidnight save for the moonlow over the Navy Yardsinging its

  my hands still smelling of garlic, I leave early, walking uncertain on my own two feet I imagine birds picking at the suet somewhere

(after 8-bitfiction) you sink your sensible feet in the dirt while we talk about the heat presuming the boundaries of the court are drawn there

after Andrew Wyeth‘s Squall the piping plovers hopped along the time I went birding, cold and wet dispositions fret, slickered yellow hiding behind dunes pock-marked by