Thursday, November 05, 2009


You know you can't
whistle for Love
in this city,
even if it stalks the streets
like a gypsy cab
over pavement
feigning hard
to preserve its solitary lines.
Your ears open themselves
to catch any cry.
Some are flocked together,
others have sought the solace
of a solo glide.
At the end of each avenue
you hear the lyrics
of Love's myriad migrations.
You imagine it
perched in a tall tree,
trapped in branches
until a storm stops.
You realize you
cannot decipher
even a single chirp.
You dim the lights
for the night
and kneel.
And maybe mid-dream,
a flapping
startles you,
on the sill
of a window
you forgot to close.
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