February, Koreatown

A parade of sedans slowed its twilight
march and the birds
of the neighborhood spread the word
along the wire but no one knew
what to do about the hawk that stood
paper bag still in the wilderness

of normandie avenue, its great
sad body gleaming rain-wet
on the cracked cement, the skies
of some lost country calling

out its name which even
if we knew we would not speak
and even if we spoke would never answer

only echo through the doorways
and the hollows of our lives
while all the stoplights turned to stars
and some lost taxi, meter running
poured its heart out on the pavement.