Tuesday, February 14, 2017

PEDAGOGY

Between the flat
and cramped Chicago
land

and its nameless,
unclaimable skies

(whose cerulean blue is
likely thick enough)

swim
pigeons—

battalions
of them,

gyrating
meticulous,
purposeless loops

in a manner
far too
light

to consider
dirty—

slow,
then gently faster

joined,
then bursting wider

wilder,
farther—
allegiant to nothing

apart from,
perhaps,
the surging

invisible
currents of air

which instruct them
equally

through support—
and inhibition.

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