A little grey velvet

on the wrong side of heaven.

Bread crumbs for breakfast,

a pearl caught in the gutter.

Such delicate manners

for such filthy habits.

A nervous little waltz

around the feet of strangers.

A sudden affection for rooftops,

for crumbs of love,

for anything that glitters.

The heart has a ridiculous habit

of returning to the same window.

Even after the glass has been replaced.

A fine day to grow feathers

and forget the address.