2004-10-21 - 4:53 p.m.
My Little Man,
Do you know there are no
birds on my street, only
feathers - black-tipped on grey,
or a grey that fades to
white where the bird has been -
as though they prefer dark
tones to light, and took flight
of boring white on white.
But where the bird has been
is where the feather finds
its flying beat, where flight
darkens the sky with its
cursive love, where it hides
beneath the wing's deep cleft
its only dream, that once
upon some time it stains
itself with ink that men
write poems to sons in.
