Supermarket cool,
I saunter down the avenue,
acknowledging height with a nod.
Perched on a chain link fence,
bleeding,
some idea about birds.
I wept once,
and the bluejays turned a
mysterious shade of wisteria.
Spectral women love the glitz
more than me,
which is to say they don’t love
me at all,
which is to say I love glitz.
In my own plastic Paris,
The shops sell angelic wings
sewn with glistening webbing.
Yesterday’s neighbor
smiles benevolently on me,
her eyesight restored,
her loneliness a cloud on
her daughter’s rooftop in
the city of breath.
I am a trespasser here,
A bird in the stratosphere.
Miniature Moon 