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!
