Mapping
The pigeons fly in cursive flocks, graceful
arcs,
Except this one, gone ahead or left behind, in urgent solo
flight.
Below a willow leans, thin and sparse, looking for
sparks,
Like an addict in the morning's trafficked street.
A
man like you hands me a urine cup, and sleeps.
I have told you
before, here at the doorway of
A thousand unhappy homes: there is
something more of place
Than time or space in loneliness. Come,
reluctantly spend the day.
Look at the unconnected stars, the
uncollected lights
Without name or home or constellation of their
own,
And imagine a use with me for all that doesn't fit.