10-24
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.
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