When every bird cometh

For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.
–Geoffrey Chaucer, Parlement of Foules

This is not
a love poem.
sound outside
my downtown window:
another broken

Street lights burn
into mid-February
dark, remember Indian
summer afternoons.
The sirens stop.
In the silence leftover,
your pulse, slowed.

Hope hides
breathing low & fast between
the river and the
dying with its secrets
into the skin
of bare city shoulders.

A soldier
makes his way
uphill from Main
Street station, red
against desert camo.

There is no
snow, today.
A good day
for wing-ed
if one hungers
for such things.

love story

picking stray hairs off the blankets
and bits of rug out of her knees
she rocks back on her heels
and stands, dressing quickly
in the cold left by his absence,
imagines again singing him
awkwardly to sleep.