Today the pigeons tack in flocks above the city,
the air crisp, forgetful.
A plume became a cloud became a plume became a fog,
No! I said to the TV and tried to hold the whole thing up
before I could say stop it—did not.
(A sharp waterfall falling.)
The parsimony of living; these rationed, after-marriage kisses.
A father I know buys potassium chloride, water, cipro, soup, duct tape.
Another says he’d have stepped over anyone to find his wife.
The building’s mangled corset cracked femurs, blown out lungs.
We breathe side effects.