The sounds of the birds indistinguishable
from the screech of laundry lines being pulled in
another day spent
in the hour when the feeling piles up

The birds are making their love dance
on the East River the water still beats it head
to the rhythms of the Atlantic wind
seasoning our breath in the flavor
of summertime and everything
the way it is going to be,
the strange wisdom.

La Memiore du Silence
plays on the radio
and I lay beside you
like a shadow
I wait
for your life to move.

In the city across the water
smoke rises up
greeting the atmosphere
in the only way it can muster
in the face of a primitive knowledge.

The protestors gather every week
to add their voices to the sound
reaching the leader’s ears
as a muffled roar
the leaders who have
not yet learned
that puppets who cannot see the strings
that bind them
can only wave a knife
wildly cutting the air