I'd like to write a song tonight and i'd love to learn some things before tomorrow. Waking up to the sound of birds who sing in spite of my own silence. However, what it is the birds don't know, out there, in that world beyond the window, is the volumes within this room. I'd like to play the guitar strings in tune with the beat of the instrument within my chest. Such treasure is a song that touches one's own heart. But how is it that mine hurts sometimes without even being touched? I think about the birds out there. It hurts to look into such darkness. Do their hearts contain such multitudes? Who am I kidding? Ridiculousness. Birds do not know the meaning of the word called multitudes. I'll probably never see the same bird twice which amazes me, but then again, I met a woman on the train yesterday and we talked for hours. The world moves and people move. I am moved by the hands of time. And with time, birds fly.

I gave her thornless roses,
thinking there is space still for something
between those ageless hands.

Very nice, sir.
Never dear, never darling, never precious—
Such old words, she says.
She means: like lungs and gasoline,
we just don’t need them anymore.

But I get my smile.
Always do.
Measured, weighed, tested, and yet:
Brief eclipse, splash of night.

The model was a fresh Rita Hayworth, 1939.

Yes, very nice. Only, tell me, sir…
Do you remember?
When the world was cruel?

Later, when there is time,
I swear to start again.
I have had dreams of honeyed girls
and an end to fearing silence.

What is it
that you want from me?

Oh,
wild things.