inexpressible groanings

"I don't have wants in terms of paint chips"

A bird dips across the bond—
I think it's a purple marten—
I think every bird is a purple marten
come to bring back the wonder of the childhood.

The mourning doves remind me
to voice my desires in some other form
than the drip drip drip of
advertisements for a life of
semi-luxury.

They coo in alleyways each sunrise,
the spirit's breath in the concrete jungle.

I don't have wants in terms of paint chips.
I want the ocean.

It drips down
drip
drip
drip
like raindrops from a leaky faucet
collecting in the warm embrace
of morning-scummed pond.