Pigeons fold their wings and fade
into the gray facades of public places;
flags descend from banks, silk slips
floating to beds. Hips thrust

like those of lovers, as workers crank
through turnstiles, and waiting
for the Ravenswood express at stations
level with the sky, they shield their eyes

with newspapers against a dying radiance;
that lull between trains
when stratified fire is balanced

on a gleaming spire. Night doesn't fall,
but rather, all the disregarded shadows of a day
flock like blackbirds, and suddenly rise.