all roads lead here so it’s no surprise
under a hot sun the wad of gum
on the cobblestone rebecomes its chewy self
everything’s milling the everything grist
of the big city so dark so inky on the map
how could you have missed its eddying current
above the sucking of the drain just days ago
I stood with the dish soap in one hand
scrub brush in the other when it happened
just like that—pigeons bloom
newly unique from their milling
like the flock of bubbles caught
for a second in my kitchen window
before I flung myself car-first
down the interstate to see you
apparently in a park
surrounded by pigeons in bloom
the metaphor long pollinated
some pigeon kits survive the shift
withstand that sudden jostle
and some can’t bear the pull
of all that impossible space
the new shafts of light on the cobblestones
every time I blink I’m sure you’re gone