watch them come and go
eavesdrop on their conversations
no one is talking about
renaissance masters
but the emptiness
of the crowded room
goes down rough
like swallowing a
desiccated peach pit
what would they listen to
what conversation would you offer
the slow and slowing beat
of that pump in your chest
that peach pit of an organ
that withered on the limb
lovesong
Words and Feathers 