Tuesday, April 23, 2013

First Idea

On a greyscale 
morning, an unseen
robin crowing—
perhaps 

proudly—perhaps
colorfully, perhaps atop 
some neighbor's dismal building—
a song unrhapsodized or
half-remembered or

imaginary;
its fleeting beats inviting,
and yet resistant to 
extrapolating—

I don't know him, and I never will
so what's the point? But what's
 the point of knowing?
The point's just where it 
comes together, so what's 
the point to asking?

Dear little 
reddish citybird,
perched high on heaps 
of greyish bricks, 

your essence,
I admit—is starting to sound 
expensive, 

but its 
coherence—and its currency,
are 
cheap
cheap cheap
cheap,

cheap!

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