Homage

Your book you may consider haphazard

is practically a bible to me. 

I don’t resist the urge to number lines

and paint them on walls usually reserved

for graffiti, another accidental 

biography caught in a moment 

just before the moment when the City

pays someone to paint it splotchy white

that looks confused and ripe for another 

predation of spray can vividity.

Your book deserves twelve other looks.

I listen to the syllables turn to lines

desire that even faithful birds learn the words.

That won’t give up or away your perfect pitch.