All of you below
Are little tiny ant-people
Bumbling through these funny streets
Hidden beneath my shadow.

With their cut cuticles of hair
And those knotted clumps of muscle
Around the pebble streets they roam
To destinations unknown

All around are towers of steel
All air conditioned and ventricled
Made of stone and office drone
They are the buzzing hives of employables

On the street the blood cells meet
On embolic artery of Battery
On varicose Vein of Sansome
The exoskeleton of this city
Curbed with Grey
and auburn streaks

Far away
Beyond the bay
In the neck of a wood's decay
The tiny ants feast on bark
As cars fly past on an interstate.

These are the things he scribbles
in the little white paper of his brain:
catch the movement
of passing shadows in a window;
search the clouds
for the feathers of a robin’s wing;
listen in the spaces of music
for the laughter of angels in hiding.

These are the things she knows today,
yesterday and maybe tomorrow:
that car mirrors, puddles, all silvery things
reflect unmated and backwards smiles;
that fluffy clouds contain the best animals
but layered ones hold all her best dreams;
that Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah
leaves her aching, reaching, unformed.

These are the things their future holds:
she will be his forever song,
the smile that remains in the shards,
they will be the only mirror they know,
that cotton days will pillow their dreams
and nimbus nights will rain their pain,
their life will be Hallelujah and prayer
and tiny angels will be their best dreams.

a waste of paper
of space

she took her time
she lost her mind

she cut her hair
due to the wear

she wished to vanish
to disappear...
maybe today
maybe in a year