White noise is falling from the treetops again. I'm looking for a new apartment, touring the giants up and down 16th Street, wondering if I'll cry here too across the ancient parquet, & who I'll bring home to share coffee and deep jags of insufficiency, feelings I should not have shared.
Everything is eventually unspoken, everything is. Keep the heart off the sleeve for a change. Hideaway in the dull bronze candle of winter city sunset, gently tarnished with old snow. Pause on the high Taft bridge, despite the height, and drop the heart away.
It's a lie, I couldn't do it. The heart sticks in the hand.