The Search

I squirrel for your key among the bird routes
and airplane flights in the blue hummed daylight.
I dig for you in lowest drawers of desks
where duties cement my legs and
cubicles encompass what’s left.

If life ever careens through, we could
rendezvous in dialogue at night’s dock.
As stowaways in bed, we might kiss
and kite our private lightening
into the bugle-blare of dawn.

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Pandora’s Moon

Let’s forget the echoes                                              
of my thirtieth year
for there’s refuge                               
in the night and the moon.
 
Moonlit night                                     
where imagination stretches starward.
Moonlit night                                     
where my name falls off like an autumn leaf.
Moonlit night                                     
where I’m a sapling attune to winter wind.
Moonlit night                                     
where my past hibernates, ant-sized.

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Flight

Now all I hear is my own hum so turn again to the window where a broken line of parked cars dots the whitening sidewalk, as the sun englobes the street in crisp detail and vivifies the skeletal oaks that scratch against the sky, implying the chimes of birds about to arrive. I lean against my window, note the dust motes pillowed on the glass like a moleculed yawn, so grab a rag and spot, on the ledge, two piebald pigeons strutting and pulsing back and forth as they peck along the sill in sync.

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