58

He sent me a photograph of a white bird, dead in mirky water, and slowly drifting.
Secretly pried upon,
the dead white bird,
laying upset in a mirky pond,
...and he slowly walks by and shares few thoughts with the dead white bird,
...and she walks down an open but dark street and wonders.
Sharing few thoughts with the passing road and few thoughts with the photograph of the dead white bird. And photographs smere, and photographs leak, and photographs are decaying in reverse. The grass is freshly cut and sneezes break the air and i'm listening to the early 90's. Phone books sit under telephones and under telephones, homeless. Inboxes sit empty and still, still i'm thinking of you. Down to 58.