The Faces: Transit


         Take two.

         As birds move from tree to tree
         I am also transitory, directed
         by the fickle whims of my own gender
         though sometimes

         sometimes a man with silver scruff
         and mossy river stones for eyes
         will casually take a seat

         And sometimes stroll down
         dark city streets sleepy and hushed
         the others fill up loud bars
         and quiet beds;

         you fill up my head.
         I crave imagined murmurs,
         guttural and gruff,
         that lips might allow to escape

         in a small hot breath

         like the fever of Bukowski’s fingers
         on typewriter keys.

No comments:

Post a Comment