by Will Burns

You looked at me across the
table and held my gaze. Eventually
you said this city has nearly killed me
and told me you were leaving for home.

Now alone, I am thinking of
you riding a bicycle to work,
broad daylight in summer,
wearing some cotton dress.

And sequenced, rhythmic,
impossibly slow moving
streams of starlings
high above the pier.

You told me Rome had twice as many birds
that swarm and dance too beautifully for words.