between brownstones / where yearning / confesses its nature

but no one is always on your side / not even a poet

I am we: space the gift, / a white sprit of motion—

and I would lean in close and tell you that John Wick kills women like
he’s read feminist theory

Smoking a dart, I said.
I just met my first bird.

Born of a sharpness, and set to music.

In my hat I sit
in my cellar
waiting

 The enemy’s late

Those photographs
of Brezhnev’s death, of Brezhnev’s corpse in state: the
forced
lilies stuffing his coffin, the million mourners in their

threadbare Kremlin.

I told you the words to it oriole.
Now when an ear come

say it right.

Kiss the mother 
that needs to become 
that needs to need 
grounding