I see those Neiman Marcus eaves
can tease out the finest of alleles:
tony suit in turquoise and gray,
slim ivory choker, onyx beak,
feet dipped in ancient lizard leather –
worthy of your own berth on HMS Beagle,
perhaps even hatched from Mendel's
most glorious pea.
We watch shoppers below,
their wings snipped
by the same mischievous hand
that slipped them on us.
Irises bright as neon pumpkins
flash into mine – a proposal?
Sorry...I'm bound to this cube
of vanished squabs and husbands.
You look away, north,
ruffle off my bars and balcony.
The sky wins you back.
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