Armitage

I.
The pigeons dropped
and shuffled down
to the street below,
brushing glass
from their wings.

I thought I might rust
out in the weather—
in the rain of splinters,
with winter my cast,
and smoke my umbrella.

And under the city,
my eyes mistook
smiles for teeth.

We measured distance in days.

I wanted to write you
letters stapled to polaroids--
something for your fireplace.