the doorman knew what he was talking about

the doorman knew what
he was talking about—

the sky, undisturbed by streets,
was mirage or fissure—

two virtualistic movements
of birds spoke of clemency,

spoke of hidden weakness—
the doorman knew

a quirk deeply embedded
in our culture—blood

money—debt that lined
the walls for promotion—

birds bank against
horizon like a plume

of pollutants, undisturbed
by borders, they flourish

in the antiquity of the moment
and make us hear with our eyes

(the doorman knew what he was
talking about)

the sole, unplugged exception
of sky spoke otherwise