Dear Richard-
not gun-metal grey,

I can see you when I push the curtains away from my window.
You are not flashing me my favorite metal smile, as you lift
a Marlboro, menthol, to your lips. The wrinkles above your eyes
tell me of your concern. There is a dead hummingbird
in your right hand. I can tell from here that its neck is broken.
Its beak is twisted toward your stomach, though its body is not.
It must have been through more, perhaps a stray cat,
because I see the blood that is running down over your wrist
and dripping onto my stoop, to mix with the ashes you've dropped
and the glass and metal scraps from the car that was going too fast
and drove straight into the front of my house.


Suddenly, the grey clears from the sky and the snow
becomes blinding. The sun is assaulting the ice as
I realize it is far better to say things outright.
So I will tell you that I am lying,
and that all I really see is snow.


Love (and it is true),
your pretty song