i ask to be one of them.
it's march & out the window
i watch them parade each day
back & forth by the railroad tracks
as empty trains pass through 
like milk cartons. 
clusters & coups & caravans
of pigeons. 
they stare holes through buildings.
everything whistles in the wind.
i show them my skin 
& they plant rows 
of iridescent feathers,
working swiftly with their beaks
excited to have another 
piece of the flock. 
i can't understand most what they say
mutter mutter mutter: soon 
& please & faster & hunger
hunger & hear & soon soon
soon. get on my knees 
to follow them to the garbage kingdom 
on the other side 
of the concrete supermarket.
where will you think i've gone
when you come to find
my bedroom full of feathers 
& a bird sitting at my desk?
will you shoo my down the hall
& out the window
or talk to me softly 
as if i were really your lover?
it doesn't matter though
because the pigeons say
i can't return. they say
here & now  here & now here & now.
you come home from work 
& slip into the alley. how have 
i come to miss the most mundane
parts of my life? 
i eat trash with the rest.
learn a song about wheels 
& weather. sky greys. a clouded eye.
we rush beneath 
train station's roof as 
it pours. i think of windows
& how water drips across 
that surface. the pigeons 
dream of factories & plastic.
the pigeons promise me 
after a week or so 
i won't even remember
moving without a congregation.
at night i miss you most.
look for your bright window
to dim before i let myself sleep.
maybe one afternoon
you'll join us. i'll sew you
with feathers &, in secret,
away from the others 
we'll talk about 
what it used to be like. 

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