Some days you run out and love
every man that you can.
The wind is heard hollering
through open spaces
between the dirty sheets.
You say you are doing it
for every man who never
got the chance.
The streets are blustery
but you are there with a man
you don't even know
pretending yourself into
a story you have fashioned
of the righteousness of
whores and lovers.
Like flowers, each is beautiful,
unique, and short-lived.
Sometimes through those
open spaces, you also hear,
like strange distant sirens,
the lonesome cries of the dead.