Husbands

Attack In Black

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