I spun in circles
yesterday, and let my feet down
dangerously on the wet concrete.
(I left my shoes inside)

I'm focused on this keyboard, like a tv set,
glancing up in intervals,
occaisionally lifting my
eyes. I'm wrapped in my blanket, hunched over, on the floor,
shirt off, and tired. My eyelids
have sandpaper lining, soothed surpsrisingly, by friction.
and weight.

My hands are gentle, fraying on the cuticles,
fingernails trimmed and uneven,

My eyes are shy in the mirror, unless
I'm looking indirectly at them. Then, I stare for minutes.

Hours are almost fiction.
They slip away like a woman taking her leave.
They don't quite vanish, no, I do.

I am prone to wander. I stuimble off down the avenues of my great concrete city, my
massive metropolis, my ghost Cleveland, lonely. It has pigeons,
stirred by the occaisional pedestrian. There is a sky,
but all is quiet. The buildings are empty.
Maintained, well groomed gardens,
parks invite the avid, freewheeling lovers,
the balls to the breeze motherfuckers I despise,
and I welcome them. There's room,
for thousands, millions, maybe.

I see a gray paper in the cold gutter, washed over with water
and other liquid refuse gliding to the sewer, which leads the way to the nearby
river. Water has walkways, too. It wanders in the form of the cloud, and
I mimic it. You'll fiind one wrenching itself and pouring itself out when the air is harsh,
deeply drinking when over other bodies
of water.

I am a mockingbird
repeating only what I hear. I am no great God bird.
You won't likely find me in the air over
you. But, I am a bird, and I have wings.