This year the pigeon’s god blessed me,

her signs coos and caws like Ubers and e-bikes

wooing in the nighttime. The birds and I 

looked at the day and with it wrote beautiful 

and untouched to-do lists. Doing stopped 

then told me they don’t talk to writing much. 

Everywhere I went the lights were orange, 

I was blinking, counting my wisdom teeth 

in a pocket mirror. It is not, as I had thought, 

impossible to look deep into the recesses

of your mouth on public transport. 

In there I found I wanted to commit, 

then saw the August I’d been looking for,

held it to the blue, tanned some. Tried 

to walk fast enough to re-convince 

the tarmac into earth, muttering it hasn’t 

been so long. The life of the mind, 

Roomba country. I ate the golden goose, 

felt the quack inside. Speckled mould 

on the shower is singing the rise and silence 

of Frank Ocean when I scrape it. 

I am told that words are good enough,

but what good is that?