Kate Pepermade so much heavier by pigeon shit,
the slow acretion and stink of it all.
Generations of bland-eyed birds
with softly fluorescent wings fanning
as they alighted, shat, cooed.
Nobody guessed they could crush a bridge
over time, or how the brass balls of the Wall Street Bull
would be so shiny from all the years of hands touching,
the testicles some totem of luck or fortune
made smaller year by year
the way our great love was reduced
to that last day we met by the Mississippi.
Spring, the Russian olives mad with perfume.
The moment you said over
was when the dead dog came into focus,
draped over the rock in the river, hair worn off,
skin obsidian, lapped by water. Read more »