A la fin es las de ce monde ancien --
                                                                   Apollinaire
From the church roofs at dusk, the pigeons burst,
a flock of semi-colons,
holding together separate but related clauses,

and we are a flock of pigeons, and a clause

waiting for this flight before evening can salvage us:

the broken thing, the flight---escape.
For a long time, bottles were a hobby we perceived,
the way your lips blew smoke into their necks,
or I smashed them into gutters.

My hands never bleed. I have cut them with jewels,
have flayed them for high treason.

What did I touch to stay alive? It is the sound you made,
so low, so soft, into the bottle's neck.

Green thing that cannot save us.
Loss that cannot perjure.

A sky full of orange disdain, a hand full of glass.

Someone's white elbows lean on the balcony.
The singer chants something unmemorable.
When desire comes, all the cheap songs are forgiven.
And what do we forgive?