Alphabet City

This morning I recorded the sound of chainsaws, and the screams of dashed dreams of red-shoulder hawks

cc: CC ‘23

Over the years I’ve learned 
if watermelon is well textured,
refreshing, it need not be that sweet,
and biscotti dipped in cold milk
need longer to soften

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Long ago she talked about talking
in present tenses

God, how I miss that,
how deep my yearn

no one nowadays is

so many adults,
so fucking mature

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There is too much shadow in the open field, 
awry, amiss, no sign of the shadowed, 
when I turn my back, will it be gone

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Is it brighter nearer or
darker farther, or 
are they one the same?

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Earliest cuneiform, sacred symbols, feminine eyes, cradled star babies, translates roughly 
to peek-a-boo!

cc: CC ‘23