Intrepid scorpions crawl up my skirt,
and the buttons on my blouse
Beyond is a fluted window
from which I can see
a drunken sunrise —
a view that greets dim shadows,
sliding along a moving car,
or rests on a sleeping dog absorbing dreams.
It’s death to an old man across the city,
whom I’ve never met.
As barbed lemons hide words
on lost or forgotten juices
there is a bird who visits every day,
pocketing seeds on a burnt roof,
as cordial pigeons nod … on
purple marionette strings.
Perhaps we’ll walk splintered sidewalks,
while listening to life’s infidelities