nothing was unusual     a rainy March morning
there were scores of starlings on the ground
she had been thinking about what he said
                                  What has been said is said often

Sifting for some interlinear significance       on the pallid grass
the birds     accumulated chromatic density

He stopped her (not vice versa) in the rain to tell her
he had been thinking     the voice beginning to dematerialize
against the slur of cars
                                  neither of them moving just yet

In the vapor light of the park
it felt as if the trees were walking with them
as if they had passed into a cloud   she had to ask him
            if this were living or

Never having seen him in fog
which set off his eyes     his voice as spectral
as he looked     his look spectral as neon in fog

— from C.D. Wright’s Rising, Falling, Hovering, published in Chicago Review 51:3. (Art and design by Quemadura.)