by December 27, 2020 0 comments

At my window sill
is where the pigeons perch
at the onset of twilight.
Under their wings, at a distance,
I see the city and the hills beyond,
their edges marked by oblique sunlight.
For a brief while, they hold their breath
ready to launch themselves in thin air,
and perhaps time warps a little then
indenting the tangled contours of my memory.
I see them contemplating stillness
day after day, at this time,
catch them dreaming mid flight,
a corner of their eye
holding an unmapped sky.

editors note:

To get away from what gets away, make a map, let map make you. (This poem comes from Debarshi’s collection, Osmosis. Read Mike Fiorito’s review of it in What’s New today.) – mh clay

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