Demonym for the Exurbs of Infatuation

1 Minute Read Time

This photograph shows multiple pigeons sitting on a green pole.
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
Eventually, the pigeons lacerated
the smog cover into an alphabet.

And so I listed to the best of my ability
all the collective nouns for birds I knew:
murder to unkindness.

Snipping circles around the outer regions
of your whats

like only a Berliner can,
you clipped a smattering
of syllables from your vocabulary’s newsprint.

I watched them murmurate
like pepper in an oiled pan
or a flurry of box-elder whirligigs

at the very first unseasonable
gust from the suddenly weird,
unspannable distance of a public clearing.

Sure, it’s a bad, pestiferous world,
but at its farthest edges

the light is sometimes ardent and indistinct:
either a low-country valley or
the small of a back.

Meet me there. I’ll bring a bottle and a grin
as bright as definition.

Read more from Issue 17.1.

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