Damp. 5 o'clock
Damp. 5 o’clock.
The pigeon is already collared,
but flies from me.
It flies from me and the small
gun of my camera but
flies too slow.
I freeze it midair,
and it will hang there forever
in the sky in
the archive of my phone.
A catalogue selling nothing.
.
Everything around me
looks like my body.
The spruce needles clotted
in the cracks of the sidewalk
like mortar.
The cloudy puddle
punctured by rain.
The rain
drawing shimmering and gritty
veins down the arm of 8th street.
I embrace the blessing of surrender
the same way a gut embraces a bullet.
