My words glide to the ground.
Brown petals from my mouth
obey the season for falling,
follow the unseen path of dried leaves
the circular flight of sick birds
spiraling withered, detached and
falling like the heart of this city
full of vagrants and newspapers
full of whores and immigrants,
this city that has never worn
a pure virgin mantle of snow.
On warm days like this,
I pretend to run and hunt
with artic wolves. Stalking
caribou and singing wolf songs
that rise to the moon
in plumes of silver howls, halos
that united above us as a single
colored rainbow across the indigo
breath of the sky. I can never
distinguish yellow eyes or stars.
I thought only my words
glided to the ground, sick birds
that hate human touch or pity,
until I looked down and saw yours
aged, scattered, smiling and withered.
