top of page
For the longest time my problem
was the city I looked over.
My feet on the bridge-walk
and the taste of wings at dawn.
I never fluttered. I didn’t fall.
In my dark suit, in winter, there is some [black] art
to how one hides it. Without a face—
I mean, without a flinch.
Then a gold beast came to rest behind me.
bottom of page