Husbands

The black-streak, bag-eyed husbands

move waiting to be widowed

by the passing of familiar skies

and all we've come to know

our shadows have my sympathy

for they must never wish to be

joined beneath, unwilling

our endless, restless feet

so praise be the break of day

when we run out of things to say

we'll learn to speak in different ways

and plea with cities to be breathing

for beauty made them bend and sway

we'll learn to speak in different ways

our list's caught frozen in a streetlight

our indecision rides atop the crow

it burned out, blackened, turned to ash and blew away

to embers far to bright to see

and not there enough to weigh