John Gibbens

Somewhere among wires and chimneys, the skill of a songbird starts. His practice is to fill his gizzard with flies and sing all he knows. His song is a game played with stones, the play of water over water-polished stones. Now is the twilight of a working day. Brick is dry, rich and absorbent like bread.

I sing a few small drops of rain burning, big river-stones gleaming black through wet,...